


What's Left Behind

by ElvaDeath



Series: The World of Draco Malfoy [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boggarts, Character Death, Depressed Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy Needs a Hug, Good Draco Malfoy, Good Narcissa Black Malfoy, Good Slytherins, Good Theodore Nott, Hermione Granger is a Good Friend, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Lucius Malfoy's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mute Draco Malfoy, Oblivious Harry, Pansy Parkinson is a Good Friend, Remus Lupin Lives, Sad Draco Malfoy, Sirius Black Lives, Slow Burn, hopefully
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-01-18 17:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 74,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21280859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElvaDeath/pseuds/ElvaDeath
Summary: The war is over. Voldemort is dead, the Death Eaters are rounded up, and the rest of the wizarding world is left to go on with their lives. But for Draco, the war in his head still rages.By the time a letter comes demanding he returns to Hogwarts for his eighth year, all he wants to do is lie in bed and slowly rot away in silence. Unfortunately, that's not an option, not when Harry is there to turn his life upside down again.My first fanfiction I'm publishing! Features a mute, depressed Draco, good and bad and sometimes neither friends, and Harry making many mistakes.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Theodore Nott, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/Blaise Zabini
Series: The World of Draco Malfoy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1580998
Comments: 498
Kudos: 1035





	1. Silence is Silver

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for giving this a try!  
It's my first fanfiction, and I don't really know what other people want to read, so any ideas you have for how to continue this, please post in the comments section. I'll try updating this weekly, but I'm not sure how much time I'll get with my GCSEs this year...  
I apologise for any grammar mistakes in the work, I know how annoying they can be. Also, I have no idea what life was like back when this would have actually have been set. Therefore, it's modern day.  
Anyway, enjoy!

He never thought he’d go back. Even if he was allowed to, he would never want to. The prospect of going to Hogwarts was nonexistent, in Draco’s eyes. Yet here he is, clutching a letter that is forcing him to for a whole year. The parchment crumples easily between his long, pale fingers, the only thing that has come easy to him in months. First, there was waiting for the trial to come, in a house smeared with memories of V- Vol-... the Dark Lord. Then there was the trial itself, having to face everything he’d done in a brutal few hours, fully convinced he was going to rot in Azkaban until the Golden Boy decided to vouch for him. Draco knew he had a saving-people thing, but turning up at the trial of the boy who did all of this, and defending him? It’s still too much for Draco to handle.

Finally, there was the aftermath. The unbearable effort of getting out of bed every day, walking through memories in every room, venturing out so little his skin became practically translucent. By the time the owl arrived, he had resorted to staying in bed all day and night, in a haze of half-sleep, ignoring the trays of food left by his bedside. The burst of anger is a welcome change from the numb feeling that has consumed him.  
Huffing, he swings himself onto the carpeted floor, stumbling at the sudden lightness in his head. His legs shake, so he sits once more, resigning himself to calling a house elf to help him. They had all been under Vold-...the Dark Lord’s control when he had arrived here, so it was a shock when he found a few of them still in the house after he was defeated. Secretly, he’s grateful. His mother needs someone to keep her company in her house arrest, with his father in Azkaban, and Draco...like he is.  
Draco knocks on the frame of the bed, three times. Instantly, one of the house elves appears, wearing their new uniform. His mother had created them, with a mixture of magic and sewing, to replace the old sacks his father preferred they wore. She had told him it was to make them look neater, but Draco knew she needed to have something to work at. To keep her sane. The house elf bows his head, fingers twisting together in front of the silver sash.

“What would it be Master Draco is wanting, sir?” It squeaks, gazing at him with round, watery eyes.  
He motions for the house elf to come closer, then tries pushing himself to his feet once more. The creature’s hands steady him by his waist, wrapping around it and letting him grip the emerald silk on its shoulder for support. Draco, the old Draco, would have felt disgusted by this. Needing a house elf for support? Pathetic. This Draco is far too tired to care.  
Gradually, he regains enough of his balance to walk unassisted, yet the house elf insists on staying by his side, ‘just in case youse is gonna falls, sir’. He doesn’t change, not quite yet ready, so they make their way through the empty halls, Draco’s eyes fixed on the floor, until they reach the kitchens. The house elves don’t shoo him out politely like they used to do. The dining room is a closed off area now, crackling yellow spells across the doors as though they could hold in the nightmares of that place. Even if any of them could steel themselves to go in there, the stench of dark magic and death would be enough to drive them out.  
A single apple is all he manages. It’s the only food that tastes like anything to him any more, and when the acid burns the wounds across his tongue, fresh from the previous night of biting it to suppress screams, he can’t help but feel ever so slightly less like a moving corpse.

The days pass. He manages a tiny bit more every day; a short stroll in the gardens, a whole bowl of soup, changing into new pajamas, running water and shampoo through his hair in the sink. His mother notices instantly, of course, and now sits with him while he eats, or reads to him before bed like she used to. She’s trying to make up for it all, he knows, and he wants to tell her that it wasn’t her fault, she wasn’t to blame, but every time he takes in enough air and is on the verge of saying it… his voice catches in his throat. Her forehead will wrinkle up, eyes pleading, but he can’t speak. He just can’t.  
And then it’s the day before he has to leave, and he’s not ready. He’s finally started properly showering, yes, and he wears clothes in the day, yes, and he eats a small meal twice a day, yes, but… no words ever come out. He’s cold all the time without his blankets. His hands shake when he remembers. He screams every night when he is able to sleep, which is not very often, and his tongue bleeds every morning after. His mark still throbs, under all the permanent bandages. He’s only talked to house elves and his mother since the trials ended.

So, no, he’s not ready in the slightest, even when he’s standing with his trunk by the door, ready to apparate to King’s Cross. The clothes he wore before don’t fit his skeleton frame, and he refused to go to Diagon Alley with all the people, so his mother let him use a muggle computer to order new outfits, while she ordered his robes. He wore one of his new outfits now, black sweater over black skin-tight jeans over black trainers. Without his father around, he no longer had to wear tailored suits, so he took a rather savage delight in wearing clothes from people his father despised. The lack of attention it brought to him was a benefit too.  
Before he apparates, he pulls on a black beanie over his silver-blonde hair, tucking as much of it away as he can without looking stupid. Not that looking stupid matters. When you’re the cause of a mass murderer taking over the wizarding world, what you look like really doesn’t change anyone’s opinion.

The world twists around him, knotting his stomach, and then it’s all noise and lights and movement and people, so many people chatting and laughing and pushing past him that he can’t breathe, it’s all too much-  
Thud. He lands on the floor, eyes blown wide up at the person hurrying so fast they didn’t see him. They’re male, and as he turns hastily, an apology written over his face, Draco sees the black hair and green eyes and those ridiculous glasses and knows he’s screwed.  
“Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to…” Harry Boy-Who-Lived-Twice Potter trails off, apology replaced with shock. “Malfoy?”  
Draco swallows. He schools his expression blank, gets to his feet, and tries to pretend that Potter wasn’t standing right in front of him expecting an answer. A nod is all he gives to the stranger he’s just a stranger don’t look don’t look don’t look as he picks up his trunk and marches off.

“Wait! Malfoy!” Potter scowls after him, but he doesn’t see, he doesn’t see because he’s definitely not looking, he’s not looking except he is, and he’s stopped, and now he can’t pretend he’s just a stranger because those stupid green eyes are glaring at him.  
He tilts his head slightly, raising an eyebrow, and it’s the most expression he’s done in a week.  
"What are you doing here?" The Golden Boy jabs, and it's almost funny how annoyed he is, except it isn't. It really isn't, because Draco knows why he's annoyed. He would be annoyed too if the person who'd caused the death of so many friends was standing right in front of him.  
He waves his ticket lightly in the air, the material creased from the amount of times he twisted it, and gestures towards the train.  
This only makes him scowl more. "Too good to talk to me now, Malfoy? I expected at least some politeness after what I did, if not any thanks, but I guess not." He folds his arms and marches off towards a ginger head bobbing inside a crowd.  
Draco opens his mouth a fraction, to retort or apologise, he has no idea, but his voice snags. Lowering his head, he snatches his trunk from the floor and climbs into the train, all too aware of the whispers caused by their confrontation. They only continue down the train, faces glaring at him from inside the compartments, until he finally finds an empty one and collapses in it, sealing the door with an anti-alohomora locking charm and conjuring a curtain over the window. Silence. Breathing out a long sigh, he rests his head back and closes his eyes, praying for a restful journey. Unfortunately, life has other plans. Only a few minutes into the train ride, sharp rapping yanks him from his stupor.

"Draco? Draco, darling, is that you?" The familiar whine of Pansy comes from the other side of the door. Pansy. He hadn't even considered that any of his old friends would come back, especially as most of them were cleared of everything. Letting out another sigh, he resigns himself to listening to her whine until they get to Hogwarts.  
"Draco! I would know that sigh anywhere. Let me in! Pleaaaase?"  
Wiping any pained expression from his face, he pulls himself to his feet and unseals the door, dragging it open. His torso is instantly wrapped in Pansy’s arms, sending stabbing pains through his body at the pressure. Behind her, Blaise stands, arms folded and chin raised, looking as neat as ever. Of course he does. He hadn’t been through the war.  
Draco winces, carefully prying Pansy from him. Instantly, she grabs his hand and pushes him back onto the seat, flouncing down beside him. “Oh, darling! You’re so thin! What happened to you?” She fusses, gazing at him with over-wide eyes.

He lifts and drops his shoulders in a shrug as Blaise closes the door behind them, seating himself opposite. It wasn’t that he didn’t want them there - indeed, he was glad he would have someone to stick up for him - but he wasn’t ready for these questions. He just wasn’t ready. Why could nobody see that?  
“Well you’d better eat a lot at the feast tonight, I can’t bear to-” She cuts off, suddenly noticing his outfit. “Draco! What in Merlin’s name are you wearing? Is that...muggle…clothing?” Her nose wrinkles up, and she not-so-subtly shifts away from him, as though afraid it might stain her clothes.  
He shrugs again, uncaring. She could think what she liked of him. Eventually she will see the monster he really is, when they arrive at school with all the whispering and the glaring. Maybe that’s what he is scared of. Not the questions, but the answers. He’s not ready for them to know how horrific his true nature is.

She scowls at him for a few seconds, then continues to chatter away. Draco remains silent, unresponsive apart from the odd shrug, causing her to become increasingly hysterical. Eventually, she storms out to recover in the bathroom, leaving him and Blaise in silence. A few moments pass.  
“I don’t blame you, you know. You’re a coward, but I don’t blame you.”  
Draco stares at him. Blaise drops his gaze, uncomfortable, and stands. “I’d better get changed. We’ll be arriving soon.”  
As soon as he’s left, Draco rubs his eyes wearily. Far too much is happening today for his liking. All he wants is to be back in his room in the Manor, curl under the covers, and sleep until it all goes away. Heaving himself to his feet once more, he grabs his robes from his trunk and steps out into the corridor.

Straight into the Golden Trio. They look as startled as he feels at first, before all three of their faces morph into dislike. The weasel is the first to speak.  
“What’s wrong, ferret? You look like you’ve just been dragged through a hedge backwards.” He snarls.  
Draco smooths out his face, putting on a stony mask. With this, he fixes the weasel with an icy glare, warning him to back off before something bad happens. He should have guessed it would have the opposite effect.  
“Not speaking to me either? Wow, you’re really stuck up your own arse. Even on the losing side, with dear old daddy in Azkaban again.”

Anger boils hot in his stomach, creating a twitch in his jaw. It’s almost a habit now, after seven years of it, to grow furious at any mention of his father, despite the fact that he agrees with the weasel. No! Not agrees. He would never agree with him. The confused swirl of emotions he is incredibly unprepared for make him turn rapidly, marching off swiftly before… before something bad happens.  
“Running away again? Yeah, thought so!” His voice taunts from behind, forcing Draco to spin to them. Opening his mouth, he prepares to yell at them to leave him alone, that they have no idea what he’s like, that he wouldn’t run from them. His voice sticks.

Their eyes watch him, still angry but now confused, as he chokes on his own words. A pathetic cough echoes from his throat. He flushes, humiliated, a hand rising to cover his mouth as he spins and storms off.  
Stupid. He’s so stupid.


	2. What Are Friends For?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going back to Hogwarts would be hard for anyone after a war, but it's a little easier to manage when you're not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to update this once a week, but I got far too excited about people actually enjoying my work. Thank you so much for the kudos! Here's another chapter as a reward.
> 
> Again, any ideas, please leave in the comments section.
> 
> \- E.D.

Draco slams the bathroom door behind him, anger and humiliation still coursing hotly through his veins. Why had they even come back? With their oh-so-holy reputations, all three of them should have been accepted anywhere without having any knowledge. Unlike certain other people.  
His back slides against the wall as he sinks to the floor, aware but uncaring of the number of germs that must be rubbing off on his clothes. If his mother was here she would be appalled. If his father was here… if his father was here he wouldn’t have done it in the first place. But he isn’t, so he can, and why is that man even in his head anyway? He’s gone. Buggered off to waste away in Azkaban.

Faintly, he registers his hands are shaking again. He stares at them in morbid fascination, deciding to focus on that rather than the fact that his robes are all crumpled on the ground. Gently, he intertwines his fingers, squeezing them together and breathing deeply until they remain still.  
Quidditch. Late nights in the common room, playing dumb games. Mother reading to him by his bed. Father smiling at him for once. Pansy tearing into another girl for insulting him. Snape giving him a wink when he gets full marks.  
His heartbeat slows, calm replacing the rushing flood. He’s fine. Breathing out a sigh, he turns to the problem of his creased robes. The cloak itself seems redeemable, thanks to the fabric, but his trousers and shirt are ruined. It’s bad enough being who he is, without looking like he slept in his uniform.

He chooses to just put the cloak on over his current outfit. Tucking the rest into a ball, he walks out of the bathroom and towards his compartment. Blaise and Pansy have both returned before him, along with a more surprising addition. Theodore Nott.  
Theodore had been on trial before Draco, charged with a number of crimes. During the war he had fought on Vo- on the Dark Lord’s side, fought, not hid in Hogwarts like most. His father had brought him to the forefront, just like Draco’s had, wanting the power and money. It seems Theodore has paid a similar price.

Draco pauses in the doorway, glancing between Pansy and Theodore. She offers him a grim smile.  
“Draco, love, Theodore needs people to go to. All the compartments are full, and those filthy Gryffindors are stalking the corridors like bloodhounds. You don’t mind, right?”  
She means that he is hiding with the only people who won’t punch him, of course. Knowing her, she’ll adopt him as her new pet to protect, and Draco can’t help but want to demand Nott leave and never return. Instead, he shrugs noncommittally, and sits. Instantly, Pansy pulls his head down to rest on her lap, where it stays for the remainder of the trip.

The awkward conversation gradually eases. Draco tunes out at the point they turn to the subject of school, not wanting to be reminded he’ll have to do actual work. Pansy’s fingers running through his hair is soothing, though, so it’s not hard to drift in and out of his haze. Her legs remain still, refraining from constantly shifting positions like usual, as though she can sense he needs this. She’s always had perfect intuition.

Eventually, like everything in his life, his happiness is abruptly cut off by the screeching of brakes. He groans in annoyance as she lifts his head off her, complaining about her pins and needles.  
“Come onnnn, Draco! The train’s stopped. You’ll have to get off eventually!”  
“Leave him, Pans.” Blaise smirks. “If you tell him to get up, he might just stay there out of spite.”  
Scowling, he gets to his feet, earning an even wider grin from Blaise. They collect their trunks, and then, the moment of doom arrives. Inhaling a shuddering breath, Draco follows them out of the train.

The reaction is gradual, spreading like a ripple in a darkened lake. Older students, those who lost friends or family, notice them first, hate spitting from their eyes as they pull away. The younger ones, aware of the sudden tense atmosphere, recognise them too. First years only look a little confused, until brothers or sisters whisper in their ear, eliciting gasps of fear. By the time the spectacle has spread enough, their group of four has a wide circle of space around them.  
Draco keeps his eyes down, tugging his beanie to cover more. Pansy joins Blaise in glaring, imperious, evidently hoping fear will make the students leave them alone. Theodore stares straight ahead, as though oblivious. The only sign that he's noticed is his clenched jaw and fist.

The carriages, thestrals visible for too many, are so close now. A few more steps and they can be-  
"Death Eater Scum! You should be in Azkaban!"  
His chest tightens, nerves firing up. Pansy whips around to rip into the perpetrator, only to find they've slipped back into the crowd. Thank Merlin. The blame for any trouble caused would land directly on their heads alone right now.  
"Come on. They're not worth it, Pans." Blaise murmurs to her, then raises his voice. "Fucking coward. Got a problem, they should say so to our faces!"  
The knot in his chest constricts more at his words. Lovely. Blaise just had to give a bloody challenge. A few moments of expectant silence follows, interspersed with whispers, but no one takes the bait. Spinning back around, Blaise marches to an empty carriage, scoffing as he goes.  
"Thought so."

They sit in relative silence, all too caught up in the dread that it was only the beginning. Draco is grateful for it, sliding back into the haze where time passes him by without any emotions, good or bad. Head resting against the leather back of his seat, he stares listlessly out of the window, watching the first drops of rain begin to fall.  
An elbow jabs into his ribs. “Wake up, darling. We’re here.”  
He can hear the apprehension in her words, the same feeling racing through him when he steps out. Hogwarts. The renovations, paid for by money taken from families like his and Theodore’s, have finally finished. The uneasiness leaks away. He’d been dreading the castle would be just like the Manor - reeking of death and dark magic - yet the new stone, while identical to the old, smelt fresh and full of new hope.

He’s almost convinced. Almost. But new hope is a lie when the sea of students recoil from them as though they’re dementors. Briefly, his grey eyes scan the stream, picking out familiar faces. Longbottom. Loony Lovegood. The she-weasel. Abbott, Macmillan, Finch-Fletchley, and Bones from Hufflepuff. Boot, Corner, and Brockle-something from Ravenclaw. And of course, the weasel, Mudblood, and Golden Boy. Not mudblood you don’t call them that it’s muggleborn you fool muggleborn NOT MUDBLOOD!

Piercing green eyes suddenly meet his for a split second before he wrenches his away, glaring at the stone slabs under his feet. Potter. Interfering holier-than-thou Potter with his irritating rat’s nest of hair and constantly cracked glasses. Yes, Draco used to be a stunner, but why couldn’t Potter stop stalking him for once?!  
Pansy’s arm snakes around his, and he lets her lead him into the castle, away from the source of his aggravation. The castle is too bright and warm for the dreadful weather, presumably enchanted to make the students feel more welcome. By tomorrow, the corridors will be just as grey and sodden as the outside world. Chattering students skim around the edge of their bubble of Death-Eater-ness, heading to the Great Hall.

Inside, everything is exactly as it had been. The only difference is the professors sitting at the head, and the number of students left to be there. Every table has gaps, not noticeable to any newcomer, yet so large and gaping that a stab of guilt rips through Draco’s stomach. Gaps where grinning faces once talked and laughed together. Now they will never laugh again.  
Their group moves over to the Slytherin table, sitting in the same seats they had every year. The younger slytherins, most likely scared to be associated with them, move down to leave room between them. Not that they have to move very far. This table in particular is so empty that even when the first years are sorted, less than three quarters of the table is filled. It’s a far cry from the time when Slytherin was a proud house.

Professor McGonagall, now Headmistress, stands and claps her hands sharply, signalling for silence. Once the chattering has petered out, she begins to speak.  
“First of all, a welcome to all first years. I’m sure you will make us all proud of you during your time here, provided you work hard. You are lucky enough to have come to Hogwarts at a time of peace, so try to make the most of it. This leads me to my next point.” She tilts her head down, looking severely down her nose at them. “While we may have felt losses during the war, we must all learn to find a healthy way to grieve. Those who passed during the war must be remembered in a respectful way, or their sacrifice for a peaceful world will have been for nothing. I’m sure most of you will have heard about the attacks on innocent civilians during the summer.”

A muttering starts to spread through the hall, cut off when she raises her hand abruptly. Attacks? Draco frowns slightly, wishing he’d picked up at least one newspaper during all that time in bed.  
“If not, I shall tell you now. So-called ‘vigilante groups’ have been attacking people who are former Death Eaters, associated with Death Eaters, or anyone who has belonged to Slytherin house.”  
On second thought, maybe not.  
The whispers that spread throughout the hall are louder this time, taking at least a minute to die back down again. The four of them exchange looks. If one of these vigilantes was searching for a perfect group to attack, they would be the ideal candidates. Theodore swallows anxiously, throat bobbing and fingers clenching the table edge.

“I hope you are all aware of how utterly atrocious this is. The war is over. I’m not asking you to forget those you lost, only that you do not ever think it is alright to attack another innocent person who almost certainly had nothing to do with their deaths. Revenge is never the best path.”  
The Headmistress waits a beat, her heavy words settling in their minds, before beginning once more.  
“On a lighter note, welcome back to all of our older students, including the new eighth years. Since there are so few of you, I would prefer for you to stay back after the feast, so that I may fill you in on some details. Finally, I would like to present our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Heartstringer, and the new Transfiguration teacher, Professor Doily.”

A woman with dark brown hair curled around her ears stands, nodding politely at the cheers. Heartstringer. She looks sensible enough, with a flat expression, yet Draco can see the twinkle in her eyes from a mile away. Hopefully, she will be decent enough to let him pass the subject.  
Unfortunately, Draco hates the other professor on sight. He’s a sandy haired, disgustingly attractive, blue-eyed fool. It’s obvious in the way all the girls, and some of the boys, cheer when he flashes them a bleached-white grin. Making an annoyed hiss, Draco scowls at him. Doily. Yeah, that suits him. A man as unnecessary and frilly as him should have a name like Doily.

“Sizing up the competition, are we?” Blaise raises an eyebrow at Draco’s scowl.  
He shakes his head, snorting. Competition? Please. The only competition for attractive, smart boy is Blaise, who’s already won by the state of Draco’s entire being. No girl is attracted to a black mess on the floor.  
He’s saved from Blaise’s retort by the arrival of food. As always, the Slytherin table consists of a healthy variety of food, unlike the calorie disaster that arrives on the Gryffindor table. All attention turns to salvaging a decently matched meal, apart from Theodore, who seems to absorb any food without a single consequence for his weight. He reminds him far too much of Crabbe and Goyle, except they steadily grew larger. Not any more. With one dead and another in Durmstrang, it’s hard to focus on eating.

“Are you really only having some bread and an apple? Draco, love, try the lasagne. It’s become better since fifth year.”  
He shakes his head, picking up the slice of plain bread and biting into it. The taste is identical to sawdust as he chews far longer than he should, struggling to swallow. Three mouthfuls later, and he sets it down, stomach roiling violently. Goyle would have eaten the entire thing in two bites. Crabbe would have eaten it in one, just to show he was better. He shoves his plate away, guilt adding to his queasiness.  
“Aren’t you going to eat the rest of that?” Again, he shakes his head. “Darling, you need to eat something. Have some carrots at least. Or some pasta.”  
I don’t want anything! Can’t you understand? I can’t eat it I can’t eat it I can’t I can’t because I’m wasting the food when Crabbe should have been here Crabbe should be the one eating and laughing with you but he can’t because he’s dead and it’s all my fault!!!

A warm hand closes around his shaking ones, grounding him. “Draco?” He realises they’re all staring at him now, two pairs of brown eyes and one black filled with concern. Trembling, he focuses on Pansy’s, calming down.  
“It’s ok, love. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I’m just worried, that’s all, Draco. If you need to tell us anything, we’ll be here, okay? That’s what friends are for.”  
He nods, glancing down at the table. Shame fills him. All she wants him to do is eat, and here he is having a massive panic attack over it. His eyes drift over the bread and apple again, hopeful, yet the sickening unrest in his stomach refuses.  
Gradually, the other three return to their conversation, and he rests his head on the table to block it all out. Pansy’s fingers run through his hair again, gentle, soothing him into the comforting illusion he’s at home, in bed, with his mother singing softly.

Why can’t he just go home?


	3. Golden Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry's POV this time.
> 
> I'm kinda tired from school starting up again, so this chapter might be all over the place. It's more lighthearted than Draco's view of the world, just to give you a break from the misery, and to show you not everyone is completely ruined by the war.
> 
> Two questions for you:  
1\. Should Sirius and Remus have survived? Everyone else will still be dead, but I'm thinking about making these two live as Harry's sort-of-parents. Sirius will have disappeared somewhere when he was supposed to die, I'll figure it out if you want him to live.  
2\. What should the dorm layout be like? Should I pair them by house or mix things up? (and any requests for who shares with who are appreciated)
> 
> Thank you for giving this a go, and enjoy the new chapter!  
\- E.D.

Harry watches Malfoy from the other side of the Great Hall. He’s dropped his head on the table, platinum blonde hair falling messily over the wood.  
To put it simply, Harry is confused. When he’d agreed to join Hermione for another year at Hogwarts, to give him time to decide what he really wants to do, he’d never considered the possibility that the ferret would return too. Why should he have? Malfoy had done so much to disgrace himself that the chance he would come back should be non-existent. Facing problems head on to apologise is never the Malfoy way; Harry has plenty of experience with that. So why? Why is he sat there with his pointy little face shoved into the Slytherin table?

“Harry’s doing it again.” Ron observes through a mouthful of food.  
Harry flinches, swinging his head to look at his friend. “Doing what?”  
“Oh, Harry, don’t let this become like sixth year…” Hermione sighs, forehead creasing in worry. She’s been doing that a lot lately.  
“What happened in sixth year?” Ginny leans over Neville, who protests weakly.  
Ron and Hermione share The Look. They’ve also been doing that a lot lately. It’s the sort of despairing expression that radiates knowledge which really shouldn’t be shared. It annoys Harry. Since when did Ron and Hermione suddenly become the ones to behave like a carer for an especially difficult child?

Since they started dating, Harry’s brain supplies unhelpfully.

“It’s not like sixth year! I don’t even know what you mean.” He grumbles, absorbing himself in a chicken wing.  
“Anyone going to tell me what happened in sixth year?”  
“Harry stalked Draco, Gin.” A dreamy voice supplies from behind Ron, who jumps and curses as he splashes himself with gravy.  
“Hello Luna.” Ginny grins, now almost sitting on a furiously blushing Neville’s lap. “Why aren’t you sitting with the Ravenclaws?”  
“There’s too many wrackspurts buzzing around the eighth years there.” She smoothly descends into the seat opposite Ginny, next to Ron.  
Hermione rolls her eyes exasperatedly from the other side of Ron, opposite Harry, evidently struggling to hold in the protest that nargles don’t exist.

Leaning his chin on his hand, Harry drifts off again as they all start talking about… something. He isn’t really sure. All he knows is that Parkinson has put one hand over Malfoy’s head, and started playing with his hair. Is that normal? Sure, Harry had suspected they were dating in sixth year, but he’d thought with Malfoy budding up to Voldemort they’d have split up. Evidently not by the way Malfoy nudges closer into her hand.  
He suddenly realises he’s been staring again, and sharply glances away. He’s not stalking the ferret. He wasn’t stalking him in sixth year either, no matter what Luna says, he was only trying to find out what he was up to. And he had been right, as well! Luna and the whole lot of them can shut up about it.

Wait...how did Luna know? She doesn’t exactly listen to what other people say, never mind hear about it before Ginny.  
“Luna, how did you know about sixth year?”  
Her light hair flicks over her shoulder as she gazes past him. “I can’t remember. Perhaps a Sroating told me in my dreams…Anyway, Ginny, you said you wanted to join the Gryffindor Quidditch team again?”  
Harry frowns slightly as ginny launches into an enthusiastic rant. She’d moved on too quickly. Normally, she would ramble on about whatever creature she’d mentioned for ages until someone stopped her, but she’d just turned and forgotten about it. He hates to suspect his friends, yet Harry is certain that Luna had lied to him.

Time passes by, filled with laughter and excitement at the comforting familiarity of it all. Soon the plates vanish, signalling Ginny and Luna to stand.  
"Guess we'd better go. Good luck with whatever you're supposed to do this year!" Ginny beams, grabbing Luna's hand to pull her away.  
"Try not to hit someone, Ron." Luna smiles sweetly, letting Ginny pull her into the stream of departing students.  
Ron stares after her, bread still in his hand. "Why would I hit someone?" He questions Hermione, baffled.  
She appears similarly confused. "I don't know. I suppose it's just Luna being Luna." Satisfied with her conclusion, she frowns at the food hanging in his hand. "Ignore her, and eat that bread. You look like you're trying to sneak it out!"

Ron quickly stuffs the remains into his mouth, making Neville marvel at how it seems to disappear as fast as the leaves of a Chameleon Flysnap. With that sorted, they stand and make their way to the front of the hall.  
Harry grins at McGonagall, who returns a stiff yet affectionate smile. The four of them, Ron, Hermione, Neville, and himself, settle on a bench together. It seems that only three or four eighth years have returned from each house, all from a single friend group.  
He isn’t surprised, honestly. The three of them only came back because Hermione wanted to, and Neville had needed to if he wants to apprentice under Professor Sprout. Hogwarts is a place stained for them all, now.

“I don’t think we need bother with formalities. You are all grown ups now.” McGonagall seats herself among them, placing her hat on the tabletop. “Eighth year isn’t something we’ve ever had to do before, but Hogwarts will always have a place for those who need it. Unfortunately, physical space is something rather lacking in your house dormitories, so we are using a spare wing for you to share, three or two to a room.”  
All fifteen of them gape at McGonagall, horror evident. Not being able to stay in Gryffindor tower? Worse, having to share a common room with Slytherins?! Harry exchanges astonished faces with Ron, whose ears are turning red, and glances involuntarily at the Slytherins.

Parkinson and Zabini glare at each other, challenging the other to speak up first, while Nott's face is stoic. Harry snorts inwardly at their perfect sense of Slytherin preservation - to challenge McGonagall would be either very brave or very stupid indeed. His eyes rest on a mass of fluffed blonde, which has replaced Malfoy’s face. Harry's amused expression morphs into annoyance. He's not even paying attention, head resting on the table again.  
From the group of Ravenclaws, someone has been muttering furiously, their words about it being 'disgraceful' and 'stupid to put us all together' clearly heard by the rest of them. McGonagall coughs politely.

"Mr Corner, perhaps I am wrong to assume you are all adults. I'm afraid there are no bubbling children to cover up your words, therefore I would appreciate you tell me directly if you take issue with my decision."  
Michael's face turns the shade of a Salamander's tongue; that is to say, incredibly red. Unfortunately, with only a small number of them, sniggering is out of the question. Harry settles for covering his smirk.  
Apparently Parkinson loses the battle, because a second later she pipes up.  
"Sorry, Headmistress, but I don't really fancy having to sleep with a wand in my hand and a thousand wards around my bed. Is there no way we can join the seventh years? There must be enough room in Slytherin house!"

The woman who had lived through a war, watched her students die, accepted the post of Hogwarts Headmistress, and been Harry's head of house (that one was probably the most exhausting), rubs her eyes as though Parkinson's refusal is the most wearisome thing she's experienced.  
"Pansy, Slytherins can't be given special treatment. You're not going to need wards or a wand during the night, don't be so melodramatic. Sit down."  
Scowling indignantly, Parkinson marches over to Malfoy’s side, away from Zabini mouthing 'Great job, Pans!' with a shit-eating grin on his face. Malfoy lifts his head, hazy eyes drifting over the scene, and Harry is struck with how gaunt his face is. In their brief confrontations, he hadn't had time to properly see him, and during dinner the discomfort at Malfoy even being there had distracted him.

Here, the veil clears. Malfoy is skeletal, skin pressing close to bone with nothing in between. The war shows on his face: in the flat grey of his once-sharp eyes, in the bruised purple under them, in the hardened structure of his delicate face. Harry should stop calling him a ferret. Ferrets don't wince in pain that much.  
In that moment, he hates Malfoy more than words can describe. The disgusting boy had made every interaction hell, had fought on Voldemort’s side, and now to make it all ten times worse, he is making Harry feel pity for him.  
Pity! The damn Death Eater (Ex Death Eater, whatever) is a fucking coward. He only got what he deserved, and it's not like he's in Azkaban! He's in Hogwarts, with both of his parents alive, and a ginormous Manor to top it all off! Pity. Pity is only for those who need it.

McGonagall's voice snaps him from his rage. “Whilst you are studying seventh year material, you will not be in seventh year classes. This year will mostly be independent study, with lessons spread out through the week, where the professor will take you through the material and leave you work to do in your own time. Some may invite you to join a certain seventh year class, but be warned, this is likely a sign you are falling behind.”  
A hand shoots up from the right of Harry, dangerously close to slicing off his ear.  
“Hermione?”  
“Professor, will the professors make exceptions for those who didn’t attend seventh year?”  
“The professors will be aware that some of you are further behind than others, so they have received a report on each of you, describing what you have or have not done. In our meetings, we have decided to start the year by working out your personal abilities. Therefore, the lessons will be quite flexible. Any more questions?”

This time Harry’s own hand raises, a sudden thought whizzing round his brain.  
“Harry.”  
“Will we be able to play Quidditch?”  
“Unfortunately, you are not allowed to join your house’s Quidditch team, but you are welcome to attend their meetings to give advice. Also, the school’s brooms and pitch are available to you outside of official practising times for personal use.”  
Harry’s stomach sinks. He can’t play Quidditch anymore? Quidditch was one of the only things that made his life bearable, and now, at the time he may need it most, it’s gone. Using the pitch by himself doesn’t sound so appealing.

A few more questions are passed around, mostly about the worrying dorms, and soon McGonagall holds her hands up.  
“Alright, I think that’s enough. Any more questions can be addressed to your head of house. For now, Filch will lead you to your dormitory.”  
Filch, Mrs Norris at his heel, hobbles forward. It’s amazing that the cat has managed to survive this long, considering her age. Harry’s surprised to find he doesn’t feel disappointed by this. Perhaps he’s developed a soft spot for her and her owner, considering that they’ve been consistently there, unchanging, throughout all his years. What a horrid thought.  
“This way.” The old man sneers at them. “You’d better keep a sharp eye, I’m only showing you once!”

With that, he turns to shuffle out again. The students hurriedly stand, gathering their friends, and follow him through halls they remember off by heart. Harry keeps pace with Ron and Hermione for a bit, before the space becomes too tight, and he’s forced behind. He starts to move to Neville, but he’s engaged in conversation with a hufflepuff girl. Baffled, Harry walks alone.  
Ron and Hermione dating is fine with him. He’s happy for them. It’s only when it becomes like this, him awkwardly trailing after them, that he can’t help but wish things were like before. When he was the one in the middle, the one they relied on. When he had some reason to be in their lives.

He should be glad that the war is over. He tells himself this every night, just before he falls asleep, trying to overcome the helplessness. But he’s not, he’s really not, because without the war he isn’t the Saviour, or the Boy Who Lived, or the head of an army. He’s been given a pat on the head, and now the world has spat him back out as a nothing  
That’s what the great Harry Potter has become. A nothing who trails after his friends, blindly hoping for a purpose again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read the notes at the top, please quickly go through them.
> 
> Here's the questions if you can't be bothered:
> 
> 1\. Should Sirius and Remus still be alive?
> 
> 2\. What should the dorm layout be? Paired by house or mixed up? (any requests for specific pairings are appreciated)


	4. The Tip of a Wand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for answering my questions! The majority have said they want....
> 
> Sirius and Remus alive  
Mixed houses
> 
> Sorry if you voted otherwise, I'll try to include anything else you mentioned you wanted.
> 
> Now, onto the chapter! Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

Draco trails behind the rest of them, his house separate from the main huddle. While McGonagall had noticed his unusual attire, she had apparently decided against calling him out on it, for which Draco was especially thankful. He doesn’t think he could have handled the sudden attention.  
Pansy has slowed her pace to let him catch up, but quickly realises he’s hanging behind deliberately. After so long alone, having her constantly around him is… uncomfortable, to say the least. Not that he doesn’t love her anymore. She’ll always be the only one who gave everything she could for him.

Potter and his friends are at the front, despite their intolerance of Argus, voices raised in boisterous chatter. Pigs. Can’t they lower their voices just a little?  
They are approaching the seventh floor now, and Draco’s hands bunch tightly in his robes. The Room of Requirement is just around that corner, where that damn cabinet was, where the Fiendfyre licked at his heels, where Crabbe died.  
Vincent. His name was Vincent.

They skirt around the edge of that corridor, turning away once more, and Draco loosens his grip. He won’t have to confront that problem today, then. Not quite yet.  
Portraits whisper to each other as they pass, grinning at the Gryffindors, sneering at the Slytherins. Further on they go, memories passing them like fading laughter, until they reach a dimly lit corridor with slits of windows. At the end is a large gap in the wall, as though a giant has stuck his fist through it. Filch doesn’t seem to have realised his mistake, however, as he carries on walking towards it.

Two metres from the gap. He carries on walking. The Gryffindors gradually pull to a halt, confused.  
“Sir?” The bushy-haired lickspittle hesitantly enquires.  
Argus doesn’t stop, throwing a “What?” over his shoulder.  
“There’s a hole in the wall.” The weasel finishes off elegantly.  
“I can see that, you idiots. Come on!”  
Draco stabilizes himself against the wall as a gust of cold air sweeps from the gap, clouds practically on eye level from their height. Argus is actually going to stroll straight off the building!

The Saviour, true to his nature, rushes forward to grab Argus, but it’s too late. The old man’s foot goes straight over the rubble and off the building.  
He vanishes.  
Everyone remains frozen, staring at the space the caretaker used to be. A few seconds pass in deathly silence. Abruptly, his face appears, twisted in annoyance.  
“It’s a charm, you ninnies!”

A collective sigh of relief ripples over the group as they surge forward again, nervously disappearing into the air. Pans giggles as she sticks her foot out, watching it vanish, then following it. Now there’s only Draco left behind, staring at the empty space.  
He creeps closer, one hand clutching the edge, one hand tentatively reaching out. His fingertips fade right as a tingle of magic rushes over his body. So, there is actually a spell there. Emboldened, he prepares to step out when he makes the fatal mistake.

He looks down.

Far, far, far below lies the ground. A tree, barely a speck in his vision, is waving at him, almost encouraging him to jump down. He stumbles back, stomach twisting and knotting and boiling as a memory he had repressed surges up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The battle is over. Draco saw the Dark Lord die, with his own eyes, and a sense of calmness washes over him as he thinks back. It’s fine, now, to leave them. No one will miss him anymore, being such a disappointment, such a waste of space. In all the panic and desperate reunions, no one will care that a Death Eater is gone.

His legs ache from climbing, but he’s almost there. Gritting his teeth, he makes it up the last few steps, and gazes out from the top of the Astronomy Tower. Dumbledore, the bias manipulative old fool, died here. His body fell from… there. Draco leans over the railing, eyes roaming over the destruction, and focuses on the exact point the body hit the ground.  
A tree, only a few metres away from that point, waves at him, encouraging him to join it.  
“Soon.” He mutters. “Just wait a moment.”

From his pocket, he pulls out a crumpled letter, singed with Fiendfyre. He’s lucky he didn’t die in that place, for the letter would have been burned up there. Now, at least, his mother and father can know his final words.  
The letter clenched in one hand, he climbs over the railings. One step.  
His fingers clutch the railings, knuckles whiter than his face, refusing to let go. Somewhere in his mind, a desperate little voice pushes out, begging not to die. He’s so scared. His heart is thudding in his chest, but he wants this! If he can’t be killed fighting, the story still needs a conclusion. He needs to die.

The moment of hesitation is too much. There’s steps below, thundering towards him, and then arms around his waist to pull him to safety. He’s numb, the terror and apprehension sticking in his throat as they turn him around again, peeling his fingers from the filthy scrap of paper.  
It’s the werewolf. Of course it is.

“Malfoy…” Professor Lupin no, not a professor, not anymore reads over the short letter once, then again, as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “Why?”  
Tears sting his eyes, ripping him from the shocked calm. Draco opens his mouth, shame and humiliation filling him, but he can’t say anything. What could he possibly say to make the man let him fall? Oh. There is that.

“I killed your wife.”

The man’s eyes fly to him, a mixture of emotions whipping through them. He seems stunned, speechless, as he should be. Draco’s a monster. Draco kills and tortures and destroys lives. Maybe the werewolf is seeing that now.  
Taking this as his cue, he turns back to the railing and puts a foot on it, preparing to resume the process. He only gets about halfway over before the other snaps back to reality and tugs him back, this time holding him still as Draco starts to struggle in earnest.

“Draco! Stop!” He called him Draco. “You didn’t kill- you just didn’t. Calm down, you aren’t thinking straight.”  
Isn’t thinking straight?! This is the most he’s thought since year fucking six, where he was branded with the dark Mark! Finally, he’s doing something good, and now this stupid man is stopping him!  
Draco collapses against Lupin’s chest, anger and disgust at himself overwhelming him. The building tears begin to streak down his face as he breaks, all at once, forgetting the werewolf holding him.

“Shh...It’s alright, Draco…” His voice is soft, too soft and caring for the boy Draco has become, and the sobs only wrack his body harder. No one has been that gentle with him since… since… he doesn’t know. It’s all too much, all at once, and when his father eventually finds them, he’s relieved. Mask back on. Tears wiped away. A sharp look threatening the werewolf to never, ever, mention this to anyone.

Terror and fear become his companions once more, and it’s only years later…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...that he realises the werewolf still has the letter.

It doesn’t matter.  
It doesn’t matter.  
He wouldn’t show anyone, right?

Slap!  
Draco shakes himself back to the present, hand and cheek stinging from the harsh contact. Stand up. Face the gap. Step through.

He pushes himself to his feet hastily, brushing down his robes. They need a thorough wash after today. The gaps looms in front of him as he marches towards it, shuts his eyes, and waits for the tingle of magic.  
It’s more of a shudder than a tingle this time. He cracks open his eyes, and registers he’s standing in the common room. It’s about the same size as the slytherin common room, yet lacks the cold, regal manner, instead opting for being cozy. There are a few chairs mimicking the stately style, however their grandness is diminished by the overstuffed sofas surrounding them. 

Pansy’s already sprawled on a chaise lounge, suspiciously similar to the exact one she had claimed in Slytherin, excluding the colour. This one, like many others, is a deep purple. It reminds him of a bruise.  
Draco weaves his way over to her, taking in the theme of purple, grey, and white, as well as the shifting animals across the walls. A snake - it’s scales unnecessarily shiny - hisses at him from above the mantelpiece, before slithering after a badger snuggling a lion. Abbot is tracing her finger over the wings of an eagle, which fluffs its feathers proudly.

“Darling, I was getting worried!” Pansy fusses, shifting over to give him room.  
“Aw, was poor darling getting scared?” Blaise snorts, earning a smack from Pansy. Inbred.  
Theodore wanders over, face in that flat expression that Draco has come to recognise as irritation. “They’ve separated us.”  
A sinking starts in Draco’s chest, fingers of dread dragging his mood down even further. Today really can’t get any worse.  
Pansy gasps. “What? Why?!”  
“Inter house unity and all that bullshit probably.” Blaise hisses, anger reducing him to using swear words.

“Yeah, right, cause you’re the ones who should be annoyed!” The weasel growls sarcastically as he passes them, freckles lost in the furious scowl across his face.  
He was wrong. Today can get a whole lot worse.  
Pansy leaps up from the seat in a second, wand out and pointed at the weasel’s neck. Silence washes over the common room like an icy wave, hands sneaking wands from sleeves or pockets. “And what is that supposed to mean, you rat?! Are you implying that you, in any way, have more right to feel things than us? Is that what your idiotic statement is about? Because, if it is, my dear friend, I will have no hesitation in-!”

“Pans.” Blaise, lip curled at the weasel, rests a hand on her raised arm. “Don’t listen to the poor, foolish thing. His brain must have overheated.”  
Theodore sniggers, trying to make light of the situation, but that’s not how Gryffindors work. The tip of a wand is instantly poked into his face by Neville. “Don’t be so cruel! You may have bullied us before, but in case you haven’t noticed, you aren’t exactly the top dogs right now.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Theodore instantly flattens his face out, regarding the wand with an unimpressed expression. “We get it. We don’t want trouble, ok?”  
“Oh really?” This time the High and Mighty Lord of Lions steps in. “That’s not what Parkinson’s wand is telling us.”  
Draco groans inwardly. First day, and they’re already in a fight. Blaise can’t calm Pansy, not when she’s like this, and soon they’ll be kicked out of Hogwarts into Azkaban for attacking the Noble Golden Boy.

Just as Pansy’s about to hex Potter into oblivion for such a stupid observation, Draco stands. All of the Gryffindors' wands snap to him. He stops, still half crouched, and curses himself. They see him as a threat. He's not the frail child that his mother sees, nor pathetic Malfoy pincushion that the Death Eaters saw. Here, surrounded by Dumbledore's Mistakes, he's an enemy.  
Forcing his hands not to tremble, he gradually lifts them in a placating gesture above his head. Don't hex me. Merlin, don't you dare hex me. Thankfully, no spell is cast, and they allow him to stand. Even if they don't lower their wands.

The silence is deafening, everyone expecting him to declare his intentions. His silver eyes flick over each person's face, trying to gauge their reactions, until he decides against heading to Pansy. That would take him past Buck-Teeth and towards the weasel, and judging by the hard lines around her mouth every time Pansy’s wand nears the weasel, the Muggle spawn would cast an incredibly nasty hex. No, not that way.  
He needs to calm Pansy down, but her back is almost completely turned to him. Speaking is the only option. 

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun... dun... duuuunnnnnnn!
> 
> Ok maybe that just spoiled the effect...
> 
> Comments are greatly appreciated, I love reading through them and getting ideas for what to write next. Thank you!


	5. Stuck In Limbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ
> 
> For everyone who has been reading this up to the 12/11/19 , I am so, so sorry! The chapters have been mixed up due to drafts being saved when I didn't want them to be.
> 
> Therefore, 'The Tip of a Wand' and 'Stuck In Limbo' were the wrong way around.
> 
> Thank you very much to the person who pointed this out to me, I wouldn't have realised otherwise!
> 
> I promise this won't happen again.  
\- E.D.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not expect to finish this chapter so quickly, but here it is!  
Ending might be a little rushed, since I had to wrap it up pretty quickly before going out, but hopefully it still works.
> 
> Another one of my wonderful questions:  
Would you prefer a more spaced out layout? For example, I would split the paragraphs up more, and leave larger gaps between sections. 
> 
> I know it's not essential or anything, but I'm still experimenting with what makes people want to keep reading. 
> 
> So, chapter 5. Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

Harry’s entire body is tense. It’s been too long since he was in a situation like this, pointing a wand at someone who might attack him, and he’s slightly ashamed to say he’s enjoying it a little too much. The adrenaline is pumping through him, faster, faster, urging him to stop waiting and protect himself. Or attack the half crouching boy in front of him. Either would be fine.  
He forces himself to calm down enough to not hex Malfoy when he raises his arms, or when he straightens up. See? No need for hexing. The ferret hasn’t got a wand in his hand anyway, unlike his friend.

Harry’s fingers adjust their grip as Malfoy’s shadowed eyes wander about. He doesn’t speak. Harry scowls, getting impatient. The ferret just stands there, silent, watching Parkinson with a desperate spark in his eye. Desperate? What could he have to be desperate about? No, Harry concludes, he’s just acting, so they’ll lower their guard.  
Finally, Malfoy’s lips open. Silence. He makes a strangled noise, pale cheeks flushing, and instantly snaps his mouth shut again.

What is the dick playing at? Pretending to be cursed? Harry’s wand dips in his confusion, a bewildered expression spreading across his face. This is Malfoy. Malfoy who loves the sound of his own voice, especially when it’s saying cruel words to Harry and his friends.  
Maybe he’s trying to make them pity him, so he won’t be attacked. But… there was the train incident. Ron had brushed it off, saying the ferret had finally realised he was lower than them. Hermione… had gone strangely silent, staring after him with a thoughtful frown.

Hermione must know, if she’s been thinking about it. Harry glances to her, and realises she’s lowered her wand. What? Why? Her face is resigned, pitying, and her gaze is directed to Malfoy, whose hands are now clenched in his robes. Oh. She’s fallen for his trick.  
Harry lifts his wand again, preparing to hex someone, but then the ferret moves again. He points with his right hand, one finger on his left hand moving up each time.

Harry, one. Neville, two. Ron, three.  
One finger of his right hand lifts. Pansy, one.  
Three to one.  
His obnoxiously pale blonde head tilts, comparing his two hands.

“So much for Gryffindor bravery. You’re only brave when you have the advantage, and then you pretend you’re outnumbered.” Zabini scoffs, his irritatingly perfect smirk in place. “Lower your wands, and stop embarrassing yourselves.”  
“Parkinson should lower hers first.” Ron interjects, eyes narrowed.  
“Ron, don’t be ridiculous. Parkinson won’t hex you when she’s surrounded by us.” Hermione sighs, looking drained as she stows her wand up her sleeve. “Let’s ignore them for now, they haven’t done anything yet.”  
Looking betrayed, Ron glances to Harry. “Mate?”  
Oh, thanks Ron. Harry scowls. Ignore him when he needs you, then expect Harry to help when you need him. It’s basically the story of his life.

Shoving his wand in his pocket, he shrugs. “Not much point. It’s the first day, we should go enjoy ourselves.”  
Reluctantly, Ron drops his wand to his side.  
Parkinson, under the judging eyes of Zabini and Malfoy, slowly lowers her wand. The ferret breathes out imperceptibly, and settles back down onto the floor, effectively removing himself from the scene.

The two groups split once more, eyeing each other suspiciously as they sit in their previous places. Harry collapses into an armchair, still puzzling over why Malfoy hadn’t spoken.  
Hermione and Ron are curled up together on a loveseat, closest to the fire, while Neville is sitting on a beanbag. Apparently, he has one at home.  
Hermione’s forehead wrinkles as she leans on one arm. “Ron, you shouldn’t get so angry at them. I’m sure they’re just trying to survive this year without fighting, like us.”  
“Well that Parkinson girl isn’t doing a very good job! I say one thing, and she attacks me like a pissed-off cat!” Ron retorts, still sulking.

“She’s always been like that. What did you say to her, anyway?” Harry questions. He hadn’t been paying much attention at that point, staring into the fireplace and wondering if he could firecall Remus later.  
“I only said that they shouldn’t be most annoyed by the rooms…” Ron grumbles.  
“Why would they be annoyed with the rooms?” says Neville.  
“Oh.” Ron pauses. “I forgot to tell you.”  
“Tell us what? What’s happened with the rooming arrangements, Ronald?” Hermione’s voice has an edge of anticipation.

Instead of risking telling them himself, he leads them to the board. There are two staircases leading downwards, originally meant for a gender split. Now, they just lead to the same corridor. Harry wonders whether this place has been used as dormitories before, since Hogwarts rarely changes its skin for new purposes.  
The corkboard hangs between the two staircases, with only one sheet of paper stuck in the middle. Neville is the first to get there, reading the rooms twice before his eyes widen.

Harry slips in between him and Hermione, eyes scanning over the list, praying it isn’t as bad as they seem to think it is.

ROOMING ARRANGEMENTS  
(in order)

1 - Bones, Susan  
Brocklehurst, Mandy

2 - Parkinson, Pansy  
Abbott, Hannah  
Granger, Hermione

3 - Finch-Fletchley, Justin  
Boot, Terry

4 - Longbottom, Neville  
Macmillan, Ernie  
Nott, Theodore

5 - Zabini, Blaise  
Weasley, Ron

6 - Corner, Michael  
Potter, Harry  
Malfoy, Draco

Harry stares, certain he's read it wrong. But no, there it is. Potter, Harry above Malfoy, Draco. Whipping around to Ron, he stammers in aggressive bewilderment. Ron, who gives up on trying to understand him, shrugs.  
"Don't ask me, mate. McGonagall's the one who put that up."  
McGonagall. Why would she do that? There's no way they're going to survive a whole year without killing each other now, even with that Michael person in the room. Perhaps the stress of becoming Headmistress has finally made her snap.

Furious, he turns towards the Slytherins, certain that they had purposefully arranged this so they can murder him while he sleeps. Stormy grey eyes catch his for a second, before flicking away in fear.  
Fear? Hermione is right - he really does need to see one of those mind healers. The words 'Malfoy' and 'fear' do not go together in any way, shape, or form. Well, perhaps as in someone being afraid of him. Never the other way round. It doesn't fit.  
Harry glares at the ferret's bleached halo of hair, shooting as many violent thoughts towards him as he could until he peeks up again.

Once more, their eyes lock. This time, Malfoy refuses to shy away, but there's no responding flare of challenge. He arches an aristocratic eyebrow, posture unusually slouched, and sighs as though this silent battle is the most exhausting one he's ever been in. Harry stares him down, determined for an unknown reason to win this. Malfoy rolls his eyes, and looks away.  
That was far too easy. He didn’t pose Harry anything resembling a challenge, and Malfoy never backs down from a challenge. Never. Especially against Harry. So Harry scowls at him, watching him for hours from the corner of his eye, waiting for him to do anything else suspicious.

Eventually, Malfoy leaves early to go to bed. Suspicious? Possibly, but Harry doesn’t know his usual schedule at this time. The Slytherins all leave early, in fact, only a few minutes after eight. None as early as Malfoy, though. That must be something.  
Harry, Ron, and Terry are the last left in the common room, and end up talking late. Really, Harry is waiting for them to leave so he can call Remus, but the conversation is enjoyable. Terry tells them he wants to work in the Ministry, and had returned to Hogwarts so that there’s no chance they could turn him down for being ‘underqualified’. 

Despite the Ministry being badly understaffed, they are taking precautions against any applicants. After the war, with the whole wizarding world crippled, the Ministry has become mortally afraid of any corruption. The slightest ripple of trouble could send the whole structure tumbling at this rate.

Finally, Terry heads down, Ron close behind. Harry kneels down in front of the grate, preparing himself, but before he can stick his own head through, one pops up in front of him. Remus’s startled face stares into his, and cracks into a grin.  
“Harry! I feared you would have already gone to bed.”  
Harry sits back, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to leave until you called. How are things back in Grimmauld Place?”  
After Sirius had vanished into the Veil, Grimmauld Place had been left to Harry as his godson. He hated every inch of it. Every strange musk smelled like Sirius, every screeching portrait sounded like Bellatrix yelling, every whispering curtain reminded him of the Veil. It was all too painful for him.

Not for Remus, though. Having only Andromeda’s place to go, Remus had decided he would do Harry a favour and renovate Grimmauld Place. What he truly meant was that Andromeda reminded him too much of Tonks. And so, they switched places. Harry stayed with Andromeda over the summer, looking after Teddy, and Remus holed up in Grimmauld Place with Kreacher. The Burrow had been no place for Harry, still isn’t, without Fred’s laughter lightening it up.  
“Great!” Remus pulls a face. “Well, Kreacher is being a pain about some objects. ‘It’s Regulus’s favourite watch’ or ‘that was built before you were born, you can’t throw it out’. That sort of thing.”  
Harry snorts. “Oh, it’s fine. Let him hide it away in the attic until he decides it really isn’t worth the space.”  
“I’ve tried that. The attic floor was threatening to collapse when I finally gave up.”

Harry falls silent, the most important but most awkward question on the tip of his tongue. “What… what about Teddy?”  
Remus’s grin falters. “He’s...alright. Andromeda is doing a good job. Says he’s changing his hair colour to match her clothes these days.”  
The death of Tonks had been hard on him, Harry knows that. But when he sees Teddy’s gurgling face, growing up without a father, he’s less sympathetic. Being an orphan is something he’s painfully familiar with.  
“Oh, Harry, I’ve got some news you might want to know…” Remus jumps in, smile spreading once more. Harry suspects he’s just trying to avoid another argument, yet he lets it slide.

“What is it?”  
“The Unspeakables have been researching the Veil again.”  
Harry’s heart sinks. Lost his wife, so now he’s trying to regain his friend? It’s impossible. Sirius is dead. Harry has to - no, Remus, Remus has to accept that.  
“Remus, I-”  
“No, Harry, I can see that look. I’m not getting desperate! The new recruits have reexamined it and the other ones were wrong! It’s not impossible to get back!”  
“They’re new, Remus, they-”  
“Harry!” Remus squeezes his eyes shut in frustration. “You’re not listening. These Unspeakables have trained differently, they know things the old ones didn’t. It’s not a Veil between the living and the dead. It’s a Veil into Limbo. Anyone who is choosing whether to pass on or remain alive goes there. Along with anyone who’s fell through the Veil. Do you see, Harry? Do you see?”

Limbo? Harry’s been into Limbo. Where he saw Dumbledore and where he chose to go back. Sirius is there?  
“Are they sure?” He whispers, hope soaring in his chest. “Can they… can they get him back?”

“They’ll have to do more research… but we can hope, Harry. Sirius might come back to us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta love those cliffhangers. I didn't intend for Remus to look so bad in this one, it just sort of... happened. He's not a bad person though! Really! I'll put him in a better light next time he comes up.
> 
> Back to my question at the top:
> 
> Would you like a more spaced out layout?
> 
> Oh, and one more quick one: Would you rather have more time with Slytherins or Gryffindors (+ Luna)?


	6. A New Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter finally done! Really hope you enjoy this one - it's been completed tiny bits at a time so may have become a little jerky.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who sent those lovely comments to me! I'm really grateful to know how much you support me and I hope I can pay you back sufficiently with my writing. You have all been kind and are such nice people to have reading this.
> 
> For anyone who doesn't understand, go to the end notes.
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.
> 
> ~~~Edit~~~  
Oh no! I'm sorry, I didn't realise deleting the chapter would delete all your comments... I still remember them, though, thank you.  
~~~~~~~~~

Draco hears Potter come in late. He remains perfectly still, breathing rigidly even, until Potter starts to snore. Because Potter does snore, like a pig. Don’t ask Draco how he knows.  
He thinks about falling asleep once or twice. Then he realises he’d rather be dead than be caught screaming from a nightmare by Potter. He’d rather be dead than be alive at all, but that’s beside the point.

Night drags on into early morning. Michael’s wand alarm is loud in the stillness, bringing Draco to slip further under the blankets from the Manor. They’re enchanted to keep the warmth in, and the dark magic out, but they do nothing to encourage Draco out of them in the mornings.  
Potter groans, throwing a pillow which misses Michael’s bed and hits Draco’s instead. When Draco sticks his head out to glare, Potter doesn’t even apologise like a decent human being. Those groggy green eyes stare at him, framed by the glasses he’s tugged on, as though Draco’s transformed into some magical unicorn. Prat.

Huffing indignantly, Draco buries himself once more. Around him, the other two dress in silence, occasionally asking for the other to pass something, completely ignoring the lump of blankets piled around Draco.  
“Coming, Malfoy?” Ernie asks.  
Apparently not. Draco grumbles a mixture of insults and aggressive comments on the state of Potter’s hair in his mind, knowing neither can hear his thoughts. Well, if Snape’s assessment of Potter’s skill was reliable. They shuffle around in the blank quiet, then two footsteps trail out the door, leaving him in peace.

Peace. Hah. If only. Draco curls in on himself in the darkness, hoping against all hope that there will be a tap on his shoulder, a ‘Breakfast on the table, Young Master Malfoy, sir’. Nothing.  
He clutches his stomach, knuckles pressing hard on the rumbling within. It’s frustrating, sometimes, when his stomach both begs for food and is repulsed by it all at once. He once tried forcing food down there in one of the worst moments, only to have it all come up again. Suffice to say, he’s never doing that again. Now, he only focuses on suppressing the nausea and dread that seems to stem from nothing and everything at the same time. 

Today, his dread is for a good reason. The four Slytherins huddle together on their empty end of the table, starting to get adjusted to the glares and whispers, ignoring them in favour of chatting about who is more fabulous: Blaise or Pansy. This has been a recurring topic over their many years of eating together, and always ends up with a few hexes being cast that inevitably hit Draco. Of course, he could duck, but then their duel would last until one of the teachers caught them.  
So this is why he’s naively grateful for the mail arriving at the brink of Pansy casting the first hex. The letters swoop down, landing straight on Theodore’s head, who picks them off with a mildly miffed expression. For some reason, Draco notices he looks confused, mouth tugging down as he glances over them.

Then the screaming starts.  
A howler. The address on the front is a scrawl, but none of them need to read it to know who it’s for.  
“YOU DISGUSTING DEATH EATERS!!! HOW DARE YOU GO BACK TO TERRORISE MY POOR CHILD! YOU SHOULD BE IN AZKABAN FOR WHAT YOU AND YOUR LOT DID TO MY HUSBAND! ESPECIALLY YOU, THEODORE NOTT!! YES, YOU, YOU HORRID-”  
A pile of ash floats down from where the shrieking howler used to be. Theodore lowers his wand, face stone cold. The entire hall is staring at them, deafening silence echoing throughout the building. Draco sinks in his seat, lips parted in shock.

“Perhaps we should eat elsewhere.” Theodore murmurs, standing. He lightly brushes Draco’s elbow, dragging him out of his daze, and leads the solemn group out in a shockingly convincing display of nonchalance. For the students who burst into conversation behind them, it would have been perfect. For Draco, the tremble in Theodore’s lip gives his imbalance away. The howler has shaken him. As they march in melancholy formation, Draco touches Theodore’s arm lightly. He glances back at him, questioning, and Draco nods, praying Theodore understands him.  
He does, if the rare smile is anything to go by. It breaks apart the stone mask, replacing it with a happy yet exhausted expression, dimpling his right cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ll be alright. One howler won’t break me.”

They wander the halls aimlessly, tentatively dancing around the topic of the howler, until Blaise's Tempus reveals it to be time for their first lesson. They split then, Draco and Pansy heading to Transfiguration while Theodore and Blaise go to their classes alone.  
Draco curls his hand into his jeans, anxious. He couldn't face the uniform yet; looking at the green brought back so much death. Instead, he's back in his jeans and sweater, the emerald-trimmed cloak tucked away under his bed. His mother would be so disappointed.  
Anyhow, that isn't the true reason for Draco's nervous trembles. Theodore’s all alone now, in a class of people who hate him almost as much as they do Draco. Blaise and Pansy can take care of themselves far too well, but Theodore’s stoney mask is something Draco is familiar with. He wore it himself once. Which is precisely the point of his worry - it doesn't work one bit.

The sight of their shortest professor pushes away his concerns. Filius Flitwick is as enthusiastic as ever, incredibly, and manages to navigate his way straight into his first eighth year lesson with no mention of the war. He’s skillful like that through the entire lesson, even with Draco.  
The problem is…  
Potter still has Draco’s wand.

It had become a weak, mangled thing through the war anyway, doing so much harm. The unicorn hair core couldn’t take it. Yet Draco mourns after it anyway, knowing Potter will never give it back to him. The ministry issued wand he has been granted is less than ideal; a useless 7 inches of alder wood, far too short for Draco’s long fingers. It’s all he has.  
Not only this, but Draco forgets, right up to the last second when Filius announces ‘Alright, try it out everyone!’, that he cannot utter a single word. As everyone around him starts casting with ease the simple spell, Draco jabs his wand helplessly.

“Everything alright over here, Mr Malfoy?”  
Draco flinches, arm dropping to his side. He doesn’t lift his eyes from the goblet of vinegar, ashamed of himself. If he can’t speak, he can’t cast spells, and if he can’t cast spells, he can’t pass any subject. Panic creeps in his chest, thudding into the walls, fizzing like a hive of distressed bees.  
“Sir, do you think it should be more of a flick or a sweep in the top part?” Pansy’s voice interrupts from beside him, drawing the professor’s attention away. Draco glances at her, gratitude towards her swelling as she winks, casts the charm for him, then nods attentively when Filius turns back to her. He sends her an appreciative smile when the bewildered professor notices. Poor old man. It seems he’s lost his edge when it comes to keeping an eye on sneaky Slytherins.

Or maybe not. As they leave, the professor levels his gaze at Draco. ‘We will speak later’.

The rest of the day carries on much the same. Pansy tries to slip Blaise and Theodore notes about casting Draco’s spells for him, but since none of them can read her atrocious writing, it turns into a full-blown conversation. If Draco doesn’t then witness each one jab a spell without a single teacher noticing, he wouldn’t say they were true Slytherins.  
Gradually, his panic about the year clears, allowing him to walk into Defense Against the Dark Arts alone. No friends to back him up here. At least the professor looks smart enough to understand his reluctance.

“Class. I’m sure you remember I’m Professor Heartstringer. Hopefully I’ll survive more than a year here, but we shall have to wait and see.” She grins, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Now, since I’m new to your fabulous school, I don’t quite know how things are here. Or anything about you, for that matter. Therefore, we are going to start with a little something to get to know each other better.”  
Introductions? Oh, great. That’s going to go down well. Draco estimates it will take about thirty seconds after he’s got up before the hate starts to spill over.

“Boggarts.”

...What?

“Yes, yes, I see you’re all very confused. How are boggarts going to get me to know you better? You see, knowing someone’s worst fear is often the quickest way to knowing what is inside their heart. Much better than ‘my name is, I live in, I have a cat called Mouse’ sort of thing. Well, any objections?”

Everyone’s hand flies up, excluding Draco.  
“Oh, sorry, I meant, ‘any volunteers’. You’ll do, dear. Yes, you with lovely hair.”  
The Saintly Sister stands, hair far from ‘lovely’. “Hermione. But, do you think it’s a good idea to have people who have been through a war fight a boggart?”  
The woman smiles gently. “It’s only a boggart, dear. If anyone does feel theirs will be disturbing, you can tell others to look away. However, I am always on hand, and I can assure you, not much sways me. Besides, having been through a war, you must all learn to face what has happened. I’m sure fighting your fears, in a literal sense, may bring you some peace.”

She looks far from convinced, but the Bookworm is unlikely to ever directly disobey a professor. Bush Face faces the cabinet Heartstringer conjures, lifting her wand and rolling back her shoulders. Clearly, she expects whatever it is to want a physical fight.  
“Remember, riddikulus is the spell.”  
The door opens. Hermione steps out.

Confused, the real Granger lowers her wand, opening her mouth to complain or something ridiculous. But Draco knows that wand should be up and casting spells before the boggart gets its chance, because no boggart is ever faulty.  
Six ginger haired children run out of the closet, tugging on Boggart-Hermione’s clothes, who suddenly appears years and years older, stress lines carving her face. After them steps the weasel, grin too smug and satisfied in comparison to the worn down woman next to him. Wedding rings. Similar to Mrs Zabini’s - neglected and often removed.  
The real weasel stands, as though to do something, yet nothing comes from his mouth. It’s the Green-eyed Potter Prat who speaks.

“Hermione.”

“Riddikulus!”

A flash from the end of her frantically swishing wand, and the miserable group disappears, replaced with a family of stumbling elephants. Hushed mutterings fill the room as Heartstringer contains them again, calling another boy forth rapidly. Hesitant giggles fill the room as he deals with his boggart.

So, the Golden Girl fears a life with the weasel? It should be a surprise. The two extras get together while the Saviour gets part of the weasel spawn, that was the deal. Not anymore it seems.  
“You, with the blonde hair.”  
Not like Draco cares. He’s heard too much from Pansy about their dramatic love life to gain any satisfaction from their inevitable falling apart.  
“Hello? Uhm, what’s his name?”  
He used to care, when the selfish little weasel used Lavender to get back at Granger, and Granger ruined Viktor’s Yule Ball with her weeping, but unless another is dragged in, he doesn’t give a shit.  
“It’s Malfoy, miss.”  
Let them rip each other to shreds.

“Malfoy, that’s it.”  
He tips his head up sharply, realising the whole class is staring at him. Fuck.  
“Malfoy, come and have your turn, dear.”  
Dear? Isn’t that term supposed to be limited to the golden girls and boys who save the world, not ruin it? He stands, trudging his way to the front, garbage wand in hand. Garbage wand. Yeah, that’s it.  
“Ready?”  
He nods, hoping the stupid creature will transform into Vo- the Dark Lord. That form, he has experience with. It might terrify him, but at least he knows he’s able to keep a blank face in front of it. He’s had too many consequences for such slip-ups to make that particular mistake again.  
“Here we go.”

The door opens. A polished shoe comes first. Fuck. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. Why?! He’d recognise that shoe anywhere, even when its owner is far away from his life.  
His garbage wand falters even before the smooth platinum hair of Lucius Malfoy swoops into the room, accompanied by the low, threatening click of his cane and snorts of laughter behind Draco. Laughter? Sure, a boy’s worst fear being his father is funny for those who hate him, but Lucius Malfoy is never, ever funny.

“Draco.”  
The word slaps him numb, an ice cold spasm of terror shooting down his spine, raising the hairs on his neck. His fingers clench his garbage wand, the only defense now.  
“Drop the wand, you foolish boy. Hexing your own father? I think not.”  
Spit flies from the man's mouth, teeth shining in the light when they are exposed in a grimace. Draco’s garbage wand clatters to the floor, everyone but him and his father forgotten, left out of the equation. A gasp rouses him from his stupor for only a second before his father snaps once more.  
"How. Dare. You. We could have been restored!"

Draco twitches, plunged back into the time those exact words were said. His short breaths fill his ears as the classroom melts away, replaced with his parent's old room, seeping with dark magic and death.  
"The war could have been won! But, NO, you and your childish sentiments just had to RUIN us! Do you have any IDEA of what the Dark Lord might do to us?! I should throw you to Fenrir for this. Perhaps then the Dark Lord may spare us…"  
His father's voice drops to a feverish mumble, letting Draco back away without being noticed. This mood of his father's is by far the worst, a mixture of intense emotions running so deep there's no way he can pull him out of it.

"What do we have here?" A giggle erupts from the door, freezing his blood in his veins. Something falls behind him, heavy and eliciting faint cries, but the sight of his aunt drives it from his mind. She twirls her way in, wild hair and wild grin accents over her deathly pale complexion. Powerful. Insane. His mother's sister.  
Lucius stiffens, fist clenched around his cane. "I was about to hand out a suitable punishment to my son."  
"Oh! Perfect!" His aunt (auntie, widdle Draco, not 'Miss Lestrange') spins once and collapses on the bed, chin in one hand. "Go ahead! It becomes repetitive doing it myself."  
His father's eyes widen, flickering between Draco and the mad woman who could sign their death warrant. "What?" His voice comes out as a croak.

"Crucio him! He let Potter escape, and that Mudblood, and that Weasley boy, and that goblin, and, erm, the other two! He even let the horrid escaped house elf rescue them." She scowls, drawing her wand from her sleeve and poking under her fingernails with it.  
Draco’s mouth opens, as though following a script, too caught up to register his words don't come out.  
His father shakes his head desperately, anxiously, constantly checking the door for Draco's poor darling mother. "Bellatrix, really, you can't expect it to work. I'm his father!"  
"Yes, well, I'm his aunt and it still works with me. Just GET ON WITH IT!" She shrieks, body jerking in an abrupt fit. A spark flies from her wand, disintegrating a vase, and she giggles.

His father, cowed by the outburst, draws his wand from his cane with an aura of finality. A scuffle starts behind Draco, but his eyes are fixed on the point of that wand. His mouth is moving, begging silently, eyes pricking with tears, knowing there's nothing he can do. Like a horrifying record, the scene has played out, and now it has to end the way it always would.  
"Crucio!"  
A father should love his child unconditionally. To cast a crucio, the caster needs to mean it. In the tiny gap between the last sound and the consequence, Draco connects these two facts. His father doesn't love him. His father hates him.

Pain, ripping through his body, flaying his skin and squeezing his heart till it bursts. The room distorts, reality leaking into hallucination. A skin-coloured blob floats above him, too far away to hear the first sound ripped from his throat in months. He screams. Over and over and over and over and over but nothing can stop the flaring fire branding itself into his soul, burning away anything that remains of Draco, filling him up with pain pain pain pain pain-

Black dots stain his vision. Strange. Bellatrix doesn't let him black out. But… it's not Bellatrix, is it. It's his father. His anguish crashes down like a tidal wave, combining with the agony to create the perfect punishment - death. It's too much for him to take.

Draco slips away, and everything stops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, my uploads won't be regular for the foreseeable future.  
If you don't want details, just know I'll upload when I can. If you do, read on.
> 
> My sister has depression. The place she's at has sent her home to us so she can get better in a calm, familiar environment, and this means that I have to be there to look after her when my parents are busy.  
Along with my mock exams and rehearsals for a play, I now need to spend a lot of time with her rather than writing this.  
This doesn't mean I can't continue writing this! I will still find time when I can, so you will get updates, they just won't be predictable or regular in any way.  
I'm so sorry... I hope you can understand.  
\- E.D.


	7. Not Your Saviour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter already! Slightly longer as well, which I hope you enjoy, and I am no longer blindly stumbling along! Ok, maybe some stumbling, but I have a faint idea of a plan.
> 
> Personal note: My sister is improving, now she's at home with her family and old friends. She's defintely less under stress, and thinking about different ways open to her, which has helped get her out of her trapped mindset. Your concern about her and me is really sweet, and I appreciate it so much, especially when you don't have any obligation to help me.
> 
> Anyway, let's finally cut that suspense, and give you the fanfic. Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Professor Heartstringer mumbles in shock, Ron flutters over a collapsed Hermione, the Boggart has turned to a throbbing scarlet mist, and Draco Malfoy is convulsing on the floor.

Harry stares.

Ok, the whole boggart thing with Lucius and Bellatrix was scary enough. It’s evident they had been talking about that day in Malfoy Manor, and now it seems it didn’t just traumatise Harry and his friends. Malfoy’s face had been… painfully similar to how he had looked on the top of the astronomy tower. Although Harry is not sure why he cares. Or why he shouldn’t. Nothing really seems clear anymore.  
He flinches as Malfoy’s voice breaks, agony clawing its way from his mouth and painting the boggart mist a vicious green. Malfoy. Screaming. On the floor.  
Abruptly aware of the imminent problem, he shakes himself from his horror. The boy’s body is writhing, even though boggarts can’t cast spells, even though the boggart of Lucius is gone. Harry, not yet fully processing, sprints over to Heartstringer.  
“Professor! What do we do?!”

She jumps, eyes wide as she faces him. “I- I don’t-...but it’s just a boggart!” Her mouth wobbles before thinning. “Harry, Neville, take Draco to Poppy. She should be able to handle it. Don’t stop at all along the way, and do not, I say this seriously, do not tell anyone but Poppy what happened! Understood?”  
Neville, who’s by Harry’s side at this point, opens his mouth to respond, but she cuts him off.  
“Good. Now go. Go!”  
Harry tugs his wand out, pointing it at Malfoy’s shuddering body, and lifts him with a spell. The effort it takes is enormous; Malfoy automatically resists the spell, trapped in his torment.

They leave. Neville follows behind, preventing any limbs from hitting a wall. Still, Malfoy screams. Harry doesn’t know what to think. Only a moment before the ferret was called to the front, he had only felt distaste for the bully. Malfoy was a coward, a traitor to Hogwarts, and a stuck-up brat. Like this, he’s…  
A scared little boy.  
So much like the boy Harry had been, hiding in his cupboard trying not to be noticed. The comparison sends a twinge of shame through him, especially as he had never been cursed by his father. Had that scene happened? Or was it just Malfoy’s imagination?  
Which is worse?  
Heads peek out from classroom doors as the desperate cries echo through the building. Harry picks up his pace, praying they wouldn’t notice who they are. The Boy Who Lived carrying his screaming lifelong nemesis through the hallways? It wouldn’t work out good, for either of them.  
Finally, they arrived. Madam Pomfrey hurries towards them the second they speed through her doors, wand already out and casting diagnostics. Her face creases, confusion and fear lines defining her features.

“What happened?”  
“A boggart. Turned into his father and cast a cruciatus.” Neville summarises, far too calm for how panicked he should feel. Harry faintly wonders if Luna has had an effect on him.  
She gently forces his thrashing body onto a bed. “Boggarts can’t cast spells.”  
“Yeah, well, this one has. What’s happened? Is he going to be alright?” Harry impatiently interrupts, fingers drumming a restless pattern on his wand. Draco is a dick. But he doesn’t deserve the pain of a cruciatus, particularly when his voice is stabbing into Harry’s soul.  
Yet another person he didn’t save. Wait, no. Malfoy was the enemy, he didn’t need saving. He doesn’t need saving. He’s a bad person. Harry shouldn’t feel responsible for him… Then why does his tortured face make him feel so guilty?

Neville and Pomfrey exchange a glance.  
“Harry, dear, go and get me a calming draught from the storeroom. He’ll need it when he recovers.” She says in a soft voice, not looking over Draco like she should be doing. They’re too worried about Harry. Because of course Harry being slightly upset is more important than Draco screaming in agony. A flare of anger flashes through him, pushing his legs to storm out.  
“Just fix him!” He yells over his shoulder, lip twitching and trembling. His heart is beating too hard, and now his eyes are leaking when they shouldn’t be.

Stupid tears. Stupid feelings. Stupid Pomfrey. Stupid Lucius. Stupid Draco.  
Stupid Draco.  
He stops midstep, bumping into a first-year who squeaks when she sees who he is and scurries off. He just called him Draco in his head. When had that happened? Probably in between all the panic and confusion. There’s no way he would call the blonde prat Draco when he isn’t halfway to death. Wait, no, he’s alive, he’ll be fine. Where did that idea come from? Stupid Harry.  
Potions and books line the walls of the store room, squeezed into every inch. On one large table is the prescriptions for students, potions they need to take regularly. A wolfsbane potion peeks out at Harry from the city of bottles, prompting his spinning mind to wonder who took it. Werewolves weren’t a rare thing anymore, thanks to Fenrir, but he didn’t know anyone who had come back who was one.

Calming draught. Right.  
He skims over the labels, most fresh and written in Pomfrey’s rushed writing. The stores had been used too many times and then raided during the last year, making almost all of these brand new. This didn’t mean they were the best quality, however; some potions, like wine, are best when aged. Hermione had told him this when he had first taken dreamless sleep. She then regretted it when he took older ones, leading him down the path to dependance, but it had proved helpful to him. At least now he no longer saw so many dead faces.  
A clear liquid sparkles on the shelf. Harry pauses, fingers trailing over the word ‘Veritaserum’. He frowns. Why is veritaserum in the hospital wing? What could Pomfrey possibly need it for? Nothing, surely, considering the ban of its use of students. So… no one would notice if it was missing, right?

His hand slips around the tiny bottle and tucks it into his pocket before he can think twice. It would prove useful in the future, like the felix felicis had. Even if it doesn’t, he can easily sneak it back before the end of the year. No worries. None at all. Harry hurriedly locates the calming draught and leaves, stowing away the veritaserum in a hidden alcove on the way. Luckily, cobwebs cover the interior, suggesting it has not been used in years. Thank Merlin for the Marauders Map.   
The noise grows again as he approaches the ward, ratcheting up his anxiety again. Without being able to see the ferret’s face, he can imagine it’s Hermione again, or Ron, or Lupin, or Ginny, or Neville, or Luna, or anyone he ever loved or cared about. He’s on the verge of simply clapping his hands over his ears to block it out when it stops. Silence.

For some reason, this makes him panic. People only stop screaming when they’re dead. He bolts forward, hand clenched around his wand, and bursts through the doors.  
Neville’s head snaps round, surprised. Harry skids to a halt, racing heart slowing, wand sheepishly lowering. Draco - no, Malfoy - is sitting up, chest heaving but alive, miraculously alive, in the hospital bed. His blonde head, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, swings around to catch sight of Harry. They lock eyes. This time, Harry is the first to look away. Malfoy can’t see the relief in them, Harry doesn’t think he’d be able to live with the inevitable taunts.  
‘Ooo, the Great Saviour Potter was worried about little me, I feel sooo flattered!’

Neville waves him over, pulling out a chair. Harry wanders to it, tentatively sits, and attempts to wrench his features to neutral. Pomfrey glances at him, then turns back to Malfoy, one hand over both of his. Through her fingers, Harry can see Malfoy’s long ones quivering. No more than his whole body, but Harry can’t stare at him. Seeing Malfoy this vulnerable is… wrong.

“Draco. Do you understand me? I know it’s difficult to concentrate, but you need to talk to me.” Pomfrey mutters, voice hushed yet frustrated. Malfoy only shakes his head, pink flooding his cheeks.  
Harry sends a confused expression to Neville, who responds with a shrug.  
“I’ll say it again, then. It was overexposure, dear. Your body reacted to what it saw in a way it thought was normal. Am I correct in assuming this wasn’t the first instance?”  
Malfoy curls in on himself, sharp shoulder blades rising higher. Stormy eyes drifting to Harry and snapping back, he gradually nods his head, lips pinching.  
Overexposure? Wasn’t the first instance? Harry’s mind whirls, refusing to understand it himself.

“How many times before?”  
One pale hand slips from under hers, holding up two fingers shaking so badly Harry wonders if he’s pretending. His harrowed face instantly shoves away Harry’s doubt.  
“What were they triggered by?”  
His tongue flicks out, nervously sliding over his lips, and Harry forces himself to rip his gaze away. Evidently he’s making things worse. He should leave. Malfoy hates him.  
“Alright, something with numbers. How many times has the curse been cast?”  
The boy’s jaw clenches, temple twitching, as he shrugs.  
“You don’t know?”  
He nods.

Harry stares at him. He remembers the cruciatus curse, the white hot brands of pure agony pricking his every nerve. How could he forget? He remembers, more than anything, wanting the pain to end so badly that he wished for the sweet release of death. And here, twitching in a hospital bed in front of him, is his childhood tormentor telling them he has had the experience so much that he hasn’t kept count.  
Harry stands, nods to Neville, and walks out.  
It’s not that he’s embarrassed to be seeing Malfoy like this. It’s not that he’s angry at him for being like this, for being who he has become. It’s that if Harry didn’t exist, Malfoy would still be the arrogant pureblood prat that he had met in first year, but with a whole untainted future ahead of him in which to change. Harry had brought Voldemort crashing down on Malfoy’s life. If Harry hadn’t survived the first time, Voldemort would have been completely destroyed by someone else, horcruxes and all, before Draco Malfoy had even said his first words.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ron finds him outside of the Room of Requirement first. The ginger slides down the wall to him, knees knocking against Harry’s.  
“So. Malfoy.”  
“Overexposure. To the cruciatus curse.” Harry sighs, exhausted by his all-consuming guilt gnawing at him for hours. He’d tried to go into the room, looking for anything to calm him, but the doorknob had burnt his hand. It seems Crabbe’s legacy will live on, even when the brutish bully himself is gone.  
“Bloody hell.” Ron whistles. “Never thought that would be his worst fear. Always thought it’d be something like his hair not being groomed enough. Or being turned into a ferret again.”  
Begrudgingly, Harry’s mouth curves into a smirk. “Even though the guy tried to kill me, I always thought he was a legend for that.”

Ron’s shoulder nudges his encouragingly. “There we go. No need to get so hung up on Malfoy! He’ll be fine, and if he isn’t, it’s only what the prat deserves. Karma and all that.”  
At Harry’s darkening face, he backtracks. “Wait, I mean, no one deserves that, but it’s over now. Pomfrey knows what she’s doing.”  
“He still won’t talk.”  
Ron’s nose scrunches, face matching Harry’s own bewilderment. “Really? That is low. Pomfrey doesn’t deserve that.”

They fall silent. Harry wonders, thinks back to when Malfoy could be heard wailing to Pomfrey all throughout Hogwarts for his claw wound. And when he came to class, the day after Hermione punched him, with a thick plaster on his nose and a fawning Pansy at his arm. He’s never been quiet about injuries, never been ashamed of them. He’s never been quiet about anything, really, even when he wanted to be.   
Once, he had been so offended by a professor telling him off, he tried to give them the silent treatment. Two days later, without a single lesson of that subject, and he had already started ranting to them about how he should have higher grades. Granted, it was because Hermione had posted her results on the classroom wall, but Malfoy’s methods were always be as loud and obnoxious as possible.

Hermione says it’s ‘Peetee Ezdie’. She’d been to muggle therapy, and instinctively treated it like a lesson, interrogating the poor therapist on every term. This is one of the terms she’d learnt, and constantly points out different behaviour, labelling the person as ‘Peetee Ezdie’. The second she learnt Malfoy hadn’t berated Michael within an inch of his life for his alarm, she had started planning a report to write to her therapist.  
Harry and Ron had nodded at her consolingly, then returned to their food. Now, Harry wishes he had listened closer. Maybe he might actually understand what this ‘Peetee Ezdie’ thing was about, and why Malfoy is so… not Malfoy?

Speaking of Hermione…

“Ron, have you and Hermione had a… y’know, a fight?” He asks tentatively, well aware of the answer. It would be yes. They’re always arguing now, more so than before the war, and Harry’s constantly having to console both of them. He would say it’s tiring, except he cares too much about them.  
“Well…” Ron chews his lip, glaring at the ground. “There was one about school. It’s just… I only really came back for you and ‘Mione, so I don’t want to waste our last year studying. But ‘Mione wants to get good grades, to get a good job, yeah? So I told her she doesn’t need to stress so much, cause Auror pay is increasing, and when I get that job I can pay for the both of us. That… didn’t help.”  
“Mate, Hermione isn’t worried about money, you know that right? It’s the-”

“The what?” A frosty voice cuts in.  
“Bloody hell, ‘Mione!” Ron blurts out, scrambling to his feet.   
Hermione crosses her arms. “Sorry Ronald. You were talking about me?”   
Ron glances at Harry, who’s now on his feet too, then back at Hermione’s steadily expanding hair. It almost crackles with furious energy, the curls much wilder than Harry remembers. Time to step in.  
“Just about your therapist thing. Malfoy’s got overexposure.” He stumbles, relieved when her hair deflates.  
“To crucio? Poor Malfoy. Did you hear what the boggart was talking about? It must have been real, then, that scene, so obviously Malfoy was imagining it again. Imagine, having your worst fear being something that actually happened? I think my therapist would say…”

She reels off her thoughts without pause, allowing Ron and Harry to slowly escort her to their common room. It takes less than ten minutes for their interrupted conversation to be forgotten, yet Malfoy keeps drifting into Harry’s head. The blonde isn’t there when they arrive, nor does he show up before curfew. It doesn’t take long before the others turn in, tired of gossip about Malfoy, and unnerved by the glares and sharp words hissed from the Slytherins. Harry stays as long as he can, until an owl arrives with a note. Parkinson takes it, reading with a scowl, before muttering to the other two that Malfoy would stay in the hospital wing. Briefly, he wonders why they aren’t with him, until he remembers Pomfrey’s obsession about her ‘no visitors, only rest’ rule.  
The note seems to settle them, enough to disperse their group to their beds. When the shuffling stops, he takes out the map from his pocket.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” He whispers, watching the ink stain outwards with a thrill of nostalgia. This time, however, the search for Malfoy’s name is backed by no ill intent. Hospital wing. Poppy Pomfrey, Faith Matthews, Jason Foster, Samantha Backhouse. No Draco Malfoy.

No Draco Malfoy.

So where is he?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	8. I Love You All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too much fluff. Seriously. Far too much fluff for such an angsty fanfic, but it is really cute. You'll be able to tell I was in a very good mood when writing this.
> 
> Don't have much else to say on this one, so...
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

Draco is released on Saturday morning, five days after the incident. By this time, the entire school and their second cousin twice removed knows, including, of course, Draco’s mother. She is, and has always been, the first to know of any gossip among the purebloods, even stuck inside the Manor. Thanks to her, Pansy and Blaise stuff themselves sick with chocolates on every visit they have, which is twice a day. It’s a wonder they’re still as skinny as ever.  
The Bucktoothed Brain visits. Draco isn’t sure why, since she simply sits there in silence, but she did nonetheless. She instantly jumped up and pretended to be visiting a second year when Pansy’s whine made itself known. Luckily, Pansy had no clue the Divine Dandelion was there for him. He doesn’t know what he would have done.

Draco grabs the half-eaten box of caramel cobwebs, stuffing it into his bag. He hadn’t needed much, lying there uselessly, and so the bag is barely needed. In all likelihood, he could carry everything in his arms. Then again, the occasional sudden jerks of his muscles would make him drop it all. A bottle, the size of his thumb, is placed on the bed beside his bag.  
“Take this. Two droplets every night before bed in a glass of water should be enough.” Poppy nods briskly, then hurries off to tend to her paperwork.  
Draco looks warily at the potion, examining it. Purple, mottled with pink, most likely a sleeping draught based on her words, yet he can’t help but be suspicious. He picks up the bottle, burying it in his bag before his hands malfunction again and drop it. If it is going to kill him, so be it. At least then his mother couldn’t be disappointed, because technically his death would be on Poppy’s hands.

“Dracooooo!” He braces himself just in time for Pansy to collide with his back, wrapping her arms around him. Poppy glances around at her disapprovingly, but Pansy’s become adjusted to it. “You’re finally well again! Come on, come on, come on, we’ve got to do something and we won’t be able to do it unless you hurry up and get ready so hurry up and get ready!!!”  
Rolling his eyes, Draco slings the bag over his shoulder and turns to her, eyebrow raised. Her face is flushed, probably from having sprinted all the way here, and she’s wearing her nice clothes. The ones she wears when going out on a date whilst trying to really piss an ex-boyfriend off.

Five minutes later, he collapses on his bed, arm aching from being dragged through the entire castle. Pansy’s somehow still bouncy though, on her knees and digging through his trunk for a ‘decent’ outfit. Apparently black muggle clothing doesn’t count as that, however, judging by the growing pile of rejected clothing.  
“You know, he doesn’t need to look like me. Not everyone has the ability, Pans. It’s an acquired taste.” Blaise drawls from Potter’s bed. He, as always, appears to have been plucked from Witch Weekly’s front page. Theodore leans against the open doorway, giving hard stares to anyone who passes in case they dare try to peek inside.

“Oh, Draco, why do you make my life so hard?!” Pansy groans, throwing aside another pair of jeans. “What happened to those nice suits you wore?”  
He considers telling her he burned them, then realises he would rather miss her friendship. Maybe this whole ‘not being able to say even one word’ thing isn’t so bad after all.  
“Blaisey-pieee…” She grins, voice abruptly innocent and sweet.  
“No. No way.” Blaise narrows his eyes at her.  
“You haven’t even heard what I was going to ask!”  
“He can’t borrow my clothes. None of them will look half as good on him, and I won’t be able to wear that outfit ever again in case people think we share clothes. Which we don’t!”  
“But he has nothing else to wear! Plus, it’s a celebration in his honour of being healthy again, so he needs to-!”  
“He could wear that.” Theodore says.

They all glance at him. He hesitates, then points at the trunk. “That. The top. He could wear that.”  
Pansy, returning to the trunk, lifts up a red and gold sweater.

Draco swears internally.

She wrinkles her nose, eyes flicking to him. “Put our Draco in Gryffindor colours? No wa-”  
“Yes.” Blaise interjects, snatching the offensive item from her. “Shove it in their faces. Or show inter house unity. Or make them all think Draco’s going out with a Gryffindor girl. By the end of the weekend, every single person will have forgotten Monday’s unfortunate incident in favour of this.”  
Draco pales. Wearing that particular sweater in front of the entire school? He’s pretty certain he’s had a dream about that once - oh, wait, no, it was a nightmare, because this is quite simply the worst idea Blaise has ever come up with. Not that any of his ideas have ever been good.

“Actually… that doesn’t sound too bad.” Pansy ponders, wiping the hand that had touched it on the floor. “After today, we are burning it, but for now he’ll wear it and we won’t ask questions as to why he has it in the first place. Theo?”   
No way. Why are they agreeing to this? How can they not see the suffering in his eyes?  
“Yeah. It’ll look cu- I mean, yeah, the plan is… yeah.” Theodore stumbles, turning his face away when done. It doesn’t hide the blush.  
Draco, however, doesn’t notice or care about Theodore’s bizarre reaction, as he is far too busy vehemently shaking his head. 

“It’s decided, Draco, don’t be a child. Now put the horrid thing on.” Pansy sighs, chucking it at his head. He catches on reflex, the familiar faint smell of broomstick polish and grass wafting over him. Fuck. Now he has to deal with the scent all day, along with the memories that accompany it.  
Reluctantly, he slips the worn sweater over his head, knowing it must fit his thin frame. It was made for someone much younger, after all. Jeans seem to be acceptable now, with the sweater, so finally they can leave. Unfortunately for Draco, the day isn’t too warm, so the common room is popular. Looney and the she-weasel have joined the Golden Trio by the fireplace, which is good in the way that they block the view to Draco, but bad in the way that Looney has a habit of sensing a Slytherin’s presence. Particularly Draco’s.

“Hello Draco.” She says in her dreamy way, completely oblivious to how much damage she is doing to his soul. The entire group of world saviours first stare at her, then stare at Draco, then stare at the stupid sweater. He nods to her stiffly, hands creeping behind him subconsciously to twist in Theodore’s top.  
“You might want to close that mouth of yours, Potter, I think a snitch might fly into it again and choke you.” Blaise smirks, head tilting up in victory when Potter’s mouth snaps shut.  
“This is far too boring for today. Come onnn!” Pansy grabs Blaise’s hand and drags him to the door, Theodore leading Draco after them. It isn’t until they get outside that Draco notices he’s still got his hand clutching onto Theodore, and quickly releases him. Theodore smiles in amusement, but doesn’t call him out for it. It’s a welcome change.

They go to Hogsmeade. Apparently, being eighth years, they are allowed free reign in their free time, as long as they don’t skip class, they can go where they like when they like. Honeydukes is their first port of call, as it has always been.  
They spread around the shop, each heading straight to their favourite section. Without other students to crowd the shop, they can call to each other over from opposite sides of the shop. The owner is less than pleased about this, but after spotting their faces, he decides to leave them be. Draco scans the shelves, the sight of so much food turning his stomach. He picks out a box of glacial snowflakes anyway, planning to send them to his mother. Or perhaps to Poppy, as a sort of thank you gift.

Theodore is in the corner at the end of the aisle, leaning against the wall, looking everywhere but at the glorious assortment of sweets. Draco approaches him, tilting his head curiously. Theodore sighs.  
“I didn’t bring any money.” He mumbles, avoiding Draco’s eye. Draco waits. ‘Not bringing money’ is never an excuse in the pureblood world; you just ask the shop owner to put it on your tab and return later. No shop owner would refuse a pureblood, as they all know purebloods will always pay back. Reputation is too important to be ruined by something as silly as not paying for some sweets. Even after the disgrace of being a Death Eater.

Theodore holds out a little longer, then shrugs and digs his hands into his pockets. “I don’t have any money.” He admits this louder, as though sounding proud of it makes the fact less bad.  
Draco frowns. He supposes they would have to pay the same fine as his family, with almost the same charges, but not having enough money to even buy sweets seems extreme. Then again, the Malfoy family has - well, had - enough money to buy out the entirety of Hogsmeade, so the fine isn’t as terrible as it must be for the Notts. Making his mind up, Draco marches to the shop owner and mimes writing.  
The poor man gapes at him, bewildered, but eventually figures it out and hastily gives Draco some spare paper and a pencil. He quickly scribbles down his question, walks back to Theodore, and holds it out to him.

‘What sweets do you like?’

Theodore’s eyes narrow, suspicious. “Why?”  
Draco, frustrated, shoves the paper into Theodore’s hands. For once in his miserable life, he’s trying to be nice, and of course he has to become suspicious.  
“Ice mice, I suppose.” Theodore mutters.  
Finally. He winds through the shop to the ice mice, grabs two packets, and returns. Theodore picks at his sleeve, embarrassed, but slowly tells him another. This time Theodore follows, and the two make their way around the shop, picking out anything that catches Theodore’s eye. A satisfied bubble pops in Draco’s chest as he pays for it all and hands the entire lot to Theodore, four galleons worth of sweets and chocolates.

Pansy eyes the pile enviously. “You never buy me anything, Draco.” She grumbles, jealousy layering her voice. In response, Draco grabs her hand and pulls her to Gladrags Wizardwear. A delighted grin spreads across her face as he picks out a silk scarf, delicate silver strands shaped like branches running through the black. He twirls it around her neck in the proper fashion, then propels her towards the mirror.  
Beaming, she twirls, the scarf floating slightly in the wind created. “My, my, it seems our darling dragon has not lost his style. Doesn’t it look fabulous, Blaise?”  
Blaise sniffs, feigning disgust. “Not quite. The green one would have been a nicer fit, especially with it’s golden trim.”  
She sighs in exasperation, flicking him with the end of her scarf. “Don’t be a prat, Blaisey.”  
“It’s in my nature. One can’t separate the prat from the Blaise without banishing both altogether.” Blaise hums, drifting away to pluck out the scarf he mentioned, and drape it around him. “Voila. Now I am more fabulous than you.”

Pansy snorts, complaining about masculine competitiveness, but she lets Blaise buy her the green scarf and Draco buy her the black. “Now I can be twice as fabulous!” She claims, twisting both of them around her neck, sending Draco a soft smile of thanks.  
Warmth spreads through his body, more satisfied bubbles bursting in his chest. It’s strange. Throughout most of their friendship, Draco has demanded so much from them. Support in everything he was doing, defense when something went wrong, spying on Potter and his friends when he felt spiteful. Giving something back to them, years later than he should have, makes him far more happy than taking ever did. Maybe he should try it more often.

They spend the rest of the day hopping in and out of shops, the bill for each item bought passing like a quaffle between Draco, Pansy, and Blaise. Neither question why Theodore doesn’t pay for anything. It’s become an unspoken rule now - unless someone keeping something hidden may kill, don’t ask.  
Around seven in the evening, Pansy guides them up to the Shrieking Shack. The place is no longer feared, but the mere fact that it was for so long is enough to deter most visitors. Not former Death Eaters, however. They climb the fence, and venture into the dilapidated house.

The claw marks are everywhere, the furniture is torn to pieces, and the place is absolutely perfect for what they need to do. From Theodore’s bag, several bottles of firewhiskey emerge, and are rapidly distributed.  
It turns out Draco is a complete lightweight. Barely two drinks in and he begins poking Blaise’s stomach, trying to figure out whether he has a hole in it that the food can escape from. Pansy pulls him off eventually, letting him sprawl over her. They play a game of truth or dare, which quickly dissolves into a game of ‘who can make Blaise look stupid’.  
No one wins, which Blaise claims means he wins. Everyone but Theodore is far too drunk to argue, so they let him prance about for about half an hour declaring his awesomeness until Pansy shoves Draco off and yanks Blaise down on top of her instead. That shuts him up.

Whining, Draco crawls over to Theodore, who grins and lets Draco curl up against him. He pokes Theodore’s stomach, wondering if all Slytherins are just fat-resistant, and finds hard muscle. Confused in his hazy state, he lifts Theodore’s top, marvelling at how different he is from the lanky boy he knew in first year.  
“Woah there, Draco. Perhaps you’ve had a little too much…” Theodore laughs, removing Draco’s hand and letting his top fall back down. Draco feels strangely disappointed, but he flops back down, head landing on Theodore’s lap. Hesitantly, Theodore runs his fingers through Draco’s soft hair. Draco hums contentedly, disappointment forgotten, and gazes around his friends.

It’s nice being liked, he decides. Being cared after and caring after others. His heart hiccups, drunk on an overdose of affection for his friends. These are his real family. Not an aunt who loves to torture him, not a cousin who died fighting for a different cause, and certainly not a father who threw him to the wolves to protect himself. Ok, maybe his mother is the exception, but she’s the only true biological family he has. The war, and everything he did in it pales in this moment compared to the love he has.  
He loves his friends. He really does love them. And he’s pretty sure it isn’t just the alcohol speaking when he opens his mouth, clears his throat, and tells them so in a very very very croaky voice.

“I love you all.”

They fall silent, gazing at him in shock. Pansy’s eyes begin to water with tears, but Draco’s foggy brain is drifting away. It’s nice being liked. It’s nice caring for people. He’s gonna do it more often. He’s gonna do something so big, so grand, so wonderful and impossible and amazing that it means everyone likes him, and everyone forgives him, and he can care for everyone he’s ever hurt.

And then he falls asleep, his words still floating in the still air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco is having a plan. A giganticus plan!
> 
> Albiet when drunk, but the best plans are made when drunk! Tbh I have no idea, I've never been drunk before. Aaanyway I'm straying off topic. Any ideas for future chapters, please say!
> 
> \- E.D.


	9. Stupid Ferret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a long time to write... but here it is! Chapter nine. Harry's perspective, again. Last chapter was very fluffy, and I had planned for this one to go back into angst, but I haven't managed to get to that point yet. Next chapter, I promise.
> 
> Speaking of next chapter... mocks are a thing, and they are not friendly to me. From wednesday to the 20th, I will not be able to update at all. I'm really sorry for this, but I will be back after that. I might even post a christmas special (in addition to the next chapter, don't worry) to make up for it!
> 
> Time to stop rambling. Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

Malfoy is up to something.

First the muggle clothing, then the silence, then the boggart thing, then the sweater. Now, he’s sneaking off to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom every chance he gets. Harry had almost dropped the ‘stalking’, as Ron calls it, after Malfoy was stuck in the hospital wing, but all of his mixed-up emotions had settled back to suspicion once he had seen the ferret’s name in the bathroom. The last time Malfoy had been hiding in that bathroom, Dumbledore had- Dumbledore had died… and Harry’s damned if he’s going to let it happen again!

He’s sitting in the common room now, the Wednesday after Malfoy was released. His friends are chatting together, Ginny embarrassing Ron, Luna braiding an awkward Neville’s longer hair, and Hermione doing another essay. Harry quickly sneaks a peek at her work, scribbling down something to the same effect on his, when the Slytherins emerge from the corridor.  
Parkinson is leading, an arm wrapped around Zabini’s, their intertwined bodies looking like they’ve come from a book on pureblood courting. Harry’s flicked through one once, at Grimmauld Place, before vanishing it in disgust. All those decayed traditions don’t sound like love at all. Nott has Malfoy by his side, Malfoy’s thin hand gripping the corner of Nott’s top like he’s done every day this week. It’s irritating. Harry isn’t sure why a spark of anger flares up everytime he sees it, but it does, and so he wants it to stop.

Nott leans over to whisper something to Malfoy, face as stoic as ever, and Malfoy sniggers. Why? What could Nott, who has a face like a slab of slate, possibly say to make Malfoy laugh? Harry wants to know.  
“Harry?” Ginny’s hand wafts in front of his vision. “Earth to Harry!”  
“What? I’m trying to work.” He snaps, instantly regretting it as Ginny’s bright grin dims.  
“I don’t think staring at Malfoy is going to give you the answer.” She retorts, pulling away from the large sofa and tapping Luna on the shoulder. “Come on, nargle-hunter, let’s leave the adults to their hormones.”  
Harry cringes, avoiding the glare he knows Hermione’s giving him. “Ginny, I’m sorry, I’m just not feeling great. Don’t leave yet…”  
“Not feeling great? Not feeling straight, more like.” She huffs, staring daggers at Malfoy before grabbing a bewildered Luna’s hand and storming out.

“Bloody hell! One look at someone else and she acts like you’re cheating!” Ron snorts, then suddenly looks at Harry gravely. “You’re not, are you?”  
“No! Why would you even think that?!” He yelps, face flushing. “It’s Malfoy, anyway, why is she getting so mad?”  
“She’s mad because it’s Malfoy.” Hermione sighs. “Honestly, Harry, you never pay attention to anything if it isn’t hissing at you or pointing a wand in your face. I’m going to the library.” She stands, collecting her work and heading out.  
Harry and Ron stare after her, Neville tickling the chin of some sort of purring plant.

“‘Because it’s Malfoy?’ What is that supposed to mean?” Ron grumbles.  
“Don’t ask me.” Harry sighs. “You think they’re all on their periods, or something?”  
“Uhm, Harry?” Neville sets the base of the plant on his lap, shuffling closer to the fireplace. “I think it’s more to do with the fact you basically zone out everytime Malfoy steps in the room.”  
“What? No I don’t!” Harry scoffs, glancing over at the Slytherins. They’re clustered by the window, where Parkinson moved to chaise lounge when Malfoy was holed up in the hospital wing, just so she could mope properly by the pouring rain. She hadn’t moved it back, so now they all congregate in that area: Parkinson on the lounge, Zabini in a high-backed chair, Nott cross-legged on a beanbag, and Malfoy lying against him, head in his lap. They look like a couple. It’s horrid.

“Harry…?” Ron’s voice brings him back to their conversation.  
“I told you. Ginny wasn’t going to ignore that forever, Harry, especially with you two still… on hold.” Neville tactfully mutters, fixing Harry with a serious gaze. “You need to sort yourself out.”  
“I don’t…” Harry trails off. What he had had with Ginny was wonderful, for a time. It was exciting, and Ginny was so much like him that it seemed the logical choice. He had imagined them flying together, going to Quidditch matches, travelling the world, seeking adventure even into their old age.   
Yet… Harry has learnt that adventure isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Last year had been an adventure. Last year had also been the worst year of his life. He had died last year, so maybe he doesn’t want the lifestyle he used to want. Without the war, Harry is nothing, but with the war, Harry was so much worse. Fading out of existence doesn’t sound so bad when he’s around the fire with his friends.

“I won’t hate you if you break up with her.” Ron mumbles, ears glowing red. Harry turns to him in surprise. Ron coughs. “I mean, I’ll have to be angry, cause she’s my sister, y’know? It’s my role as her brother. But I won’t hate you, not really.”  
“Thanks, Ron.” Harry pauses. If he broke up with Ginny, that would be final. He wouldn’t have to keep putting off the inevitable conversation, and all the stress about what a life with her would mean would be gone. But… what if he changes his mind? He’s changed his mind once, he could change it again, and breaking things off would mean he could never go back to her, even if he has changed his mind. “But what if-”  
“Ginny’s waiting by the lake.” A dreamy voice cuts across him, followed by a wispy-haired Luna settling back beside Neville. “At least, I think she’s waiting. She told me to leave her alone, which probably means she’s waiting for someone else instead. That’s what it usually means.”

Her hands unravel the braid from Neville’s hair, and instead start to stroke the purring plant, which rapidly distracts her. Harry’s not sure when Ginny and Luna became friends. It happened somewhere between leaving Grimmauld Place and arriving at Hogwarts, but Harry doesn’t need to know the details. He’s just happy Luna’s not alone anymore, and also maybe happy that she doesn’t think of him as her only friend anymore. Not that he doesn’t enjoy her company, but she’s a little clueless.

Footsteps, whispering along the carpet, approach. Harry’s head whips round, stinging his neck, yet he ignores the ache in favour of gaping at the tall skeleton boy behind him. Malfoy stays silent, nodding at Luna without acknowledging the others. Oh, yes, that reminds him, that’s another thing that seems to overwhelmingly suspicious. The ferret is now talking, and only to his minions. So evidently he has not met Peetee Ezdie, Hermione.   
Luna bounces up, floating over to Malfoy. “Hello, Draco. I found that Gravespring sniffler yesterday, but it turns out it was just a normal pile of moss. I hope Theo isn’t too disappointed.”  
Harry blinks at her. Luna tends not to surprise him anymore, since she always does the unexpected, but this is too bizarre. She calls him Draco, and calls Nott Theo, and apparently regularly goes out looking for mythical creatures to give them. Is she purposefully trying to make Harry’s head explode?

Malfoy shakes his head, corners of his lips quirking. Is he smiling? No, the ferret made fun of Luna when he spoke, called her Looney like the rest of the school. He can’t like her. Not the Malfoy Harry knows. No, he must be up to something, as usual.  
“I’m going to visit the thestrals tonight. It’s getting closer to the full moon, and they don’t like it. Do you want to come?” She carries on, unaware that she is having an entirely one-sided conversation. That’s Luna for you.  
The blonde git winces, fluffy hair swooping over his paler forehead as he shakes his head again. One hand gently touches his chest, right above where the heart would be. Luna nods, a knowing look passing over her, as though she understands this obscure gesture. Harry stares.  
“Perhaps another time. You had something for me?” Her head perks up, rhubarb earrings swaying in the faint motion.  
This time he nods, bringing out a flat box he had clutched to his bony chest. It’s about the size of his head, yet square in shape, and wrapped in a sparkling silver ribbon. A present? This interaction cannot get any more ridiculous than this.

Luna beams, gently taking it and turning it over, finger drifting over the material. “Thank you. I’ll make sure to give it to him, don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll love it. And he forgives you, just as much as I do.”  
Trembling fingers clench onto muggle sleeves. The grip tightens, and the trembles fade. Malfoy nods, mouth quirking slightly, and turns sharply to stalk back to his pack of Slytherins, who are all glaring in trepidation. Harry sits up straighter, returning the glares with renewed ferocity.  
“What the bloody hell was that about, Luna?”  
She tilts her head, hands still dancing about the box, and smirks. “Nothing, Ron. I have some homework to complete. See you later!”  
And then she’s gone.

Eyebrows furrowed, Ron faces Harry. “What?!”  
Harry shrugs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Night falls quicker than the last, and quicker still than the one before that. The castle is cold as it draws nearer to winter. Harry becomes infinitely more grateful to Hermione for teaching him a warming charm as time goes on, as his younger self seemed to gloss over the freezing temperatures with all the excitement of adventure. Being an adult, he’s now focused on the practical things in life. Like having fifty blankets stacked up over him. And checking where the hell Malfoy disappears to every night.  
He watches the ferret’s progress through the castle; ducking around corners as Filch approaches, slipping down secret passages that even Harry has never been through. Tonight, Malfoy doesn’t stay in the bathroom. He only ducks in for a second, in and out of a cubicle, then heads to the storage room.

Harry sits up abruptly, then hastily checks to make sure Corner didn’t notice. Luckily, the boy is still snoring away, so Harry returns to the parchment.  
The ferret’s only five paces away from where the Mirror of Erised had been almost eight years ago. He stays there, unmoving, as though he can actually see himself in the ghost of the Mirror. Perhaps he actually can. Perhaps he’s found a spell where he can see into the past and can look into the Mirror of Erised. Perhaps he’s searching for the Philosopher's Stone inside of it.

No, that’s ridiculous. Harry sighs, preparing to fold the map, then hesitates. Yes, the idea that he is somehow accessing the ghost of the Mirror is wrong. But Malfoy has no reason to be standing stock-still in the middle of an empty storage room with no ghosts to complain to. There’s no one there to watch him and stop him from doing something horrible.  
Determination resolved, Harry throws the blankets off and grabs a thick jumper, trying in vain to contain the heat he had a second before. Marauder's Map? Check. Invisibility Cloak? He pulls it over his head, tugging at the corners to make it cover him. Has it shrunk? Or maybe he’s just grown. With a nostalgic sigh, he remembers when all three of them could fit under it.

Invisibility Cloak? Check.

He leaves. The castle is still, holding its breath as Harry creeps down its halls. Portraits snooze peacefully, blissfully unaware of Harry’s intruding presence as he passes. Seventh floor, sixth floor, fifth floor, fourth floor. Turn left, then left again, then straight until the door, and…  
It’s open. He can hear noise floating from the crack, the whispering of papers and the scratch of a quill. Writing? If he’s come all the way down here just to watch Malfoy do his homework, he’s giving up on this. It’s stupid anyway; Malfoy can’t be doing anything dangerous, or he could be chucked into Azkaban after his dad.

There’s a muttered curse, and a crumpled ball of parchment smacks against the doorframe, rolling to a halt within reaching distance of Harry, who’s now peeking through. He can see Malfoy’s head, covered over by that annoying beanie, bent over a desk carried over from one of the stacks. Crumpled paper litters the floor, too many to count. Muscles tense, Harry holds his breath and reaches for the paper closest.  
Malfoy doesn’t notice.  
Harry’s fingers close over the paper, and he draws them back to unfold it away from the door. It’s a list of names, in some sort of order, signified by the numbers next to them. Luna is at the top, with the number one, and Harry at the bottom, just above ‘The entirety of the fucking wizard world’. It’s a long list. But Luna is already crossed out with a sharp stroke, ink still wet across her name.

Another crumpled ball flies into the door. Harry stares, confused, not wanting to believe his eyes. Malfoy talks to Luna today, gives her something, and now he’s crossing her name out on a list of people who he hates. Dull thudding begins in Harry’s chest, the first vestiges of panic.   
Option one: Confront Malfoy. He’s clearly making a list of people to attack, and if Harry can stop him now, the fucking ferret can’t hurt anyone else. However, if by some hellish mistake Harry loses, no one else will know. And whether he wins or loses, Luna might die anyway. Whatever was in that box might set off any second now.  
Option two: Save Luna. If he gets there now, the box can be disposed of before it sets off, and Luna can be saved. However, Malfoy will still be on the loose, and can escape before he can be detained.

What’s more important? The life of Harry’s friend, or another evil-doer being caught and locked away?

Harry clenches the paper in his fist, and sprints to the Ravenclaw common room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He’d forgotten how difficult it was to get in. Every time he asked for the riddle, another jolt of panic shot through him. Luckily, however, there had been someone inside reading a book late. (Actually, there had been quite a few. No wonder most Ravenclaws had shadows under their eyes.) They had let him in, and watched in surprise as he shot to the seventh year girls’ dormitory. The whole castle will be filled with rumours tomorrow, but frankly, Harry doesn’t give a shit. Let them talk about what Malfoy tried to do instead.

He bursts through the doors, eliciting yells of horror and shock from those inside. All except Luna, of course, who simply rubs her eyes tiredly and glides over to him.  
“Hello Harry.”  
“Luna, where’s that box Malfoy gave you? The one with the sparkly ribbon?” Harry urgently pleads, failing to keep the worry from his voice. The other girls huddle together, a mass of giggling blankets.  
“Oh, I like that box. It’s over here somewhere. I think I might use it to catch those Gravespring snifflers that Theo wanted.” Luna mumbles, dreamy speech slurred with tiredness. Someone finally casts Lumos, illuminating her hazy shuffling of boxes. Because Luna has a lot of boxes, most of which seem to be empty by the hollow sound they make as they hit the floor. Harry shifts from foot to foot, wand tapping against his leg. If whatever it is goes off now, they could all be killed. Where is the box? What’s inside it?

“Here it is!” She finally, finally chirps, the ribbon glittering in the gloomy light. Harry snatches it, skin sizzling with tension at the contact, and hurls it out of the window.  
There. Done. No more panic, no explosions. Time to catch Malfoy and lock him away for good.

Luna gazes at him for a few seconds, a wrinkle forming between her brows. “If you wanted to kill the box, maybe you should have let me take the ribbon first. I wanted to use it for a dress.” Her voice is soft, disappointed. “At least I still have Draco’s present.”  
“What?!” Harry yelps, glancing between the window and her crestfallen face.

“Yes, it’s over here. Isn’t it beautiful? The note says his mother made it by hand.” Luna swoops over to a tiny full-body outfit, green silk sewn in at the waist and a silver sash sliding from shoulder to hip. Harry delicately pushes her aside, examining it.  
“Isn’t it a little… small?”  
“It’s not for me, Harry. It’s for Dobby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had the idea for this for ages, ever since I wrote 'wearing their new uniform' in chapter one. Dobby should have survived, but this idea of giving his grave the new uniform, even if he couldn't wear it, was just too tempting.
> 
> Vote time!  
Should I write the scene where Luna gives Dobby's grave the uniform? Who else should be there?
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	10. It's So Unfair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! Mock exams are done, and Christmas is approaching! Hope you haven't been too desperate for me to update... Remember to look out for my Christmas special either on Christmas Eve or Christmas day. And any comments or suggestions are appreciated, especially if you have any suggestions for the Christmas special (I haven't started writing it yet... less than three days to do so!).
> 
> Right. 10th chapter. This one's a dramatic one, so buckle up your seatbelts!
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

Hogwarts isn’t so bad now. His friends make everything so much better when he can hold a conversation with them, and now he’s started his grand project. Luna’s instant forgiveness was unexpected, yet she’s always been the only one from Harry’s side to like him. That’s the reason that on every list he made, she was at the top. Even when she was kept prisoner in Draco’s home, she would listen to his fears and thoughts when he brought them food, offering him comforts.  
He’d heard about the incident a few days ago, however. When that idiotic Saviour of Our Souls had thrown the box out of the window, raving about how he hated ‘that Malfoy’. Evidently, gaining forgiveness from people is going to be much harder than Draco had thought, with Potter destroying every improvement.

Heartstringer had apologised to him. Apparently she hadn’t intended to cause any harm, and she hadn’t considered the possibility that someone might get hurt. Boggarts were supposed to be safe enough for third years, after all. He’d graciously accepted that with a nod, and she’d promised to be more careful. She didn’t have much choice, though, with McGonnagall watching over her lessons with the seventh and eighth years.

So Draco has settled into a routine, one that comforts him. Get up after Potter and Corner have left, avoid the uniform shoved to the back of his trunk, let Pansy coax him into eating something small, pretend to cast spells while his friends do it for him, avoid lunch but eat something for dinner, and relax by the window in the common room before taking the sleeping draught and falling into oblivion. His mother sends him everything he needs, including the bandages for his left arm.  
Life is good.

Except for tonight, when he tips the sleeping draught upside-down and nothing falls into his glass of water. Nothing. How did he not see this coming? The bottle was opaque, but he could have peeked inside and seen how low the level of liquid was. Why is he such a fool?  
His hand abruptly jerks, bottle sliding to the floor and shattering. Draco winces, nerves raw, and frustratedly rubs away the stinging of his eyes. Malfoys don’t cry!

“Hey, mate, you alright?”

Corner is sitting on his bed, half-dressed, most likely avoiding the celebrations downstairs. They’d taken up wizard chess tournaments instead of quidditch, and the weasel had just won against Boot, so evidently every house apart from Ravenclaw and Slytherin is overjoyed. Blaise could have taken the Flame-headed Boy, but he was far too busy flirting with Pansy.

Draco gestures helplessly to the remains of the potion, spread across the floor. Corner pulls out his wand, fixing the bottle, then slips off his bed hesitantly.  
“I’ll get you some more. Don’t worry about it. Dreamless Sleep, right?” Corner’s voice is suspiciously soft, sympathy bright in his eyes, and Draco feels shame burn in him. He doesn’t deserve Corner’s pity. He’s probably been the cause of a death of a friend.  
Even so, he nods, because Pansy gets annoyed when he insists he doesn’t deserve something. She claims it’s better to let people help him even if he doesn’t deserve it, because it makes them feel useful, and he doesn’t want to cause people more pain, does he?

Corner sends him a half-smile, then pulls a top on and leaves. Sitting heavily on his bed, Draco stares at the snake slithering quietly across the walls of the room, displeased by the roaring lion in the common room. The murals appear to have feelings, like the portraits, and as the snake passes, Draco runs a finger along its back. It pauses, turning its beady eyes to him, and flicks out a tongue.

Fifteen minutes later, the door opens once more. Draco faces it, expecting to find Corner, and meets green eyes. Potter.  
He stands there in all his late-night glory, hair ridiculously messy, and puffing like he’s just run a marathon. Awkwardly, he holds out a bottle of Dreamless Sleep, face twisted with uncertainty. Draco stares. Why the hell is Potter bringing him the potion? Where’s Corner? Why is Potter being fucking nice to him? Or has Potter decided to pretend to take him a potion just so he can whip out his wand and finish the job he started in year six?

“Michael had to do something, so, uhm, I got this.” Potter starts, hand held out uselessly. There’s no way Draco is going anywhere near him. Being alone in a room with Potter is never good anyway, let alone being close enough for Potter to hit him.  
They watch each other, wary, until Potter steps forward. Draco instantly tenses, his icy glare spearing Potter. He stops abruptly, slowly places down the bottle and backs off as though Draco is a cornered wild animal.  
“There. You can take it. I just want to talk.”

With trepidation, Draco picks up the bottle and pours himself a couple drops. The mixture tastes sweeter than normal, more pleasing, so Draco swallows it in one. Poppy really is the best staff member in this school. Potter watches Draco keenly, then sits on his own bed. “So… What’s your name?”

Draco stares at him in bewilderment. Why is he asking for Draco’s name? He already knows it. Draco starts quirking an eyebrow in confusion, when his mouth suddenly opens and words flow out, as though it only now remembers it can.  
“My name is Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

Potter looks weirdly delighted, spine straightening as he launches into another question. “Why did you give Luna that outfit for Dobby?”

“I wanted to be forgiven.” What? Why is he telling Potter this? He clamps a hand over his mouth, panic flooding him, and half-stands. With a flick of his wand Potter forces him to sit again, and casts a locking charm on the door. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. What the fucking hell?!

(Think, Draco.) Severus’s voice rings in his ears, dampening the alarmed racing of his brain. (He didn’t cast a spell before. How did he have access to change you?)  
The potion.  
(Good. Five points to Slytherin.) That amused smirk, proud. (What did you notice about the potion? Anything different to last time?)  
It was given to me by fucking Potter!  
(No, no, no. We’ve already gone through that. Remember the taste, the smell, the colour.) An irritated flick of his cape, a cape Draco hid beneath as a child when he was scared.  
It was… sweeter.  
(There you go. Sweeter, nicer to the taste, so easy to drink in one go. Forces you to answer Potter.) His lip curls at the name, faint in Draco’s memory. (What potion creates these results?)  
Veritaserum.  
(Exactly.)

Oh how low the Saviour has fallen.

“Forgiven? Why? So she would trust you and then you could do something horrible to her?”  
“No!”

Ok, ok, ok. Veritaserum. Counter by… Occlumency. Thanks Auntie Bella.

“Why do you want to be forgiven then?”  
Wall up, concrete, wood, metal, anything to block out the- “Because I don’t want to hurt anyone again.” Shit.

“So why did you join Voldemort,” Draco flinches, hissing in his ears, “if you don’t want to hurt people? How are you lying to me?” Potter’s face is flushed, annoyed.  
“I had no choice.” Fuck you Lestrange. You were a shit teacher.

“How?”  
“If I didn’t, my family would suffer, and we would all end up dead anyway.”

“Why didn’t you tell Bellatrix it was me?” Potter’s face becomes just as surprised as Draco’s, like he didn’t even realise he wanted to ask that question.  
“I didn’t want you to be killed.” No, no! This is going to close to danger territory. Draco tries to stand again, rushing at the door, but Potter’s spell practically slams him back to his seat.

“Why? You could have won the war, and your family would get the honour.”  
“I didn’t want - fuck! - for the Dark Lord to win the war.”

“What? Why?”  
“He was fucking insane, but you were-” NO! STOP! Draco clenches his fist into the fabric of his blanket, jaw clenched, fighting the Veritaserum with everything he has. He can’t tell Potter.

“I was what?”  
“You - fuck! Fuck you, Potter! HELP! SOMEONE-” Draco’s hurled backwards, slamming into the wall. Potter’s on his feet now, horror written across his face as he stares at the door. No one comes. The fucking psycopath breathes a sigh of relief, and turns to Draco, who’s stunned into silence.  
“I. Was. What?”

“The only person who could save me. But you didn’t. And you left with the others, and you left me behind, with them, and you know what happened. And then you saved me, in that Fiendfyre, when it was already too late and you should have fucking known that, Potter, you should have saved Crabbe and now he’s dead and it’s not fucking fair and then you see me on that platform and you tell me I should have thanked you. For what? For leaving me behind, with fucking psycopaths? For taking away my only chance of dying in honour? For killing Crabbe? For making me stay in that fucking house of hell? Fuck you, Potter.”

His emerald eyes, the colour of death and fatal pride, bore into Draco, shivering on the floor. No expression flits across his face, blank as death. Draco should know; he’s seen enough of it.  
“Fuck you, Potter.” He repeats into the silence, voice weaker. His body feels exhausted, as drained as he was on that first day after the war had ended. Trembling, he pushes himself to his feet, and stumbles his way past Potter’s unmoving form to the door. It’s still locked.  
“Let me ou-”

“Why did you want me to save you? You hate me.” His voice sounds lost, world muddled into a heap.  
“No, I didn’t Potter. I’ve wanted you to save me since I first knew about you - like some sort of shitty fairytale, where the knight saves the prince. I thought I’d grown up. But then you refused my hand in first year, and it was so unfair because I was- Just leave me alone, Potter. I only want to get through this year, and you’ll never have to see me again.”

The list was a stupid idea. Forgiveness? Who was he kidding? It just made people hate him more, and do stuff like spike his drink with Veritaserum.

“No, wait, you were what? How is it unfair?”  
“I was-” Fuck, no. Why did he have to keep talking? Please, Merlin, send down a silencing charm and stop his treacherous mouth from saying-

“I was in love with you.”


	11. Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... be prepared for this one, that's all I can say. I've updated this pretty quickly, but that's only because there's important information in here that you needed to know for the Christmas Special (which is written and ready to go). Two days until Christmas! Yayy!
> 
> Be warned: most of you will not be happy with this. What happens in this is not permanent, however! Please don't murder me for it!
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

There’s a pain in Draco’s chest. It’s stabbing into him, twisting his organs into unnatural shapes, and no matter how far or how fast he runs, it won’t go away. The look on Potter’s face had been… disgusted. Because Draco is a filthy Death Eater and Potter is the shining Saviour, and no matter what Potter might be doing, that would never change.

He trips over himself, knocks into a wall and lets out a startled cry. Then he presses his mouth shut, fingers clawing his lips back together. No good comes of talking. Talking only causes pain, and now that pain is catching up to him in the form of Potter yelling after him. He stumbles back into a run, slips under a portrait and sprints as fast as his feeble legs can carry him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry slows to a halt, gasping for air. He’s lost Malfoy. Who knew the boy could run so fast with barely enough muscle mass to stand? It’s probably those ridiculously long legs.  
He rests his back against a wall and sides down it, hitting the floor with a groan. He’d thought Veritaserum was reasonable, especially considering Malfoy might have been trying to raise Voldy, but he hadn’t, and now Harry just feels like the ultimate dickhead. To make it worse, he’d kept on questioning him in his confusion, and then Malfoy had to tell him… that.

Malfoy was in love with him.

The words are so illogical, as though a baby has randomly stacked them together. It doesn’t make sense, in any shape or form. All those taunts and jibes throughout the entirety of his school years had not represented love, but Malfoy was on Veritaserum when he had said it. It’s the truth.  
Or… Harry had heard that Veritaserum only makes people tell their truth, what they truly believe. So mad people still said their twisted version of the truth. And Malfoy being in love with him doesn’t make sense, it’s madness, so perhaps Malfoy has gone mad. That’s the only explanation.

Harry pushes himself to his feet, casting a quick tempus. The party should be finishing up soon, if they hadn’t stopped when Harry and Malfoy had barrelled through, and Ron and Hermione were there. He should talk with them. Hermione, with her knowledge of muggle therapy, should be able to tell him if his suspicions are true. Mind resolved, he gets up and heads to the common room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The autumn air is freezing on Draco’s skin as he steps out into it. He’s still running, despite the silence behind him. Potter’s unpredictable, he can’t risk stopping when Potter could be right behind him. If Potter catches him, he has no idea what might happen. Potter has killed before, after all.

There’s a figure by the lake, smoke trailing from their hand. Probably one of those experimental Ravenclaws, doing some incredibly dangerous spell just to ‘see if it would work’. They’ll ignore him if he ignores them. That’s been the usual code between them every time he comes across one. Of course, there’s always the danger one might decide throwing a Death Eater into Azkaban is worth getting into trouble for, but Draco refuses to stop his nighttime activities.

However, this time it’s not a Ravenclaw. Draco slows his pace as he approaches, making out more of the figure. He’s wearing muggle clothes over his broad shoulders, and has a bottle of Firewhisky tucked against his hip. Draco stops a few steps away, and watches him turn and face him.

“Hey, Draco.” Theodore half-smiles, face haggard. “Wanna join me?”  
Eying the smoking stick in Theodore’s hand suspiciously, he sits down, picking up the Firewhiskey so he can take in more of Theodore’s heat. He examines it as it sloshes, half-empty, in his hand.  
“What’s got you up so late?” The other boy questions, bringing the white stick to his mouth and breathing in. The end of it glows faintly, and Draco jumps back, staring at it.

Theodore looks at him, startled, as he brings the stick away from his mouth and breathes out smoke. Then he laughs, shaking his head. “No, it’s not gonna explode. It’s called a cigarette. You breathe the stuff in and it makes you feel better.”  
Draco frowns, still wary. Theodore holds it out to him. “Try it.”  
Hesitantly, Draco takes hold of the bizarre creature, and brings it to his lips. The thing stinks, but if it makes Draco feel better, the smell would be more than worth it. He breathes it in tentatively, and immediately starts coughing harshly, eyes stinging.

Theodore pats him on the back, grinning. “You’ll get used to it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione and Ron are waiting near the fireplace as he comes in, their faces worried. The party seems to be long over, as everyone has evacuated the room. Hermione instantly jumps up, forehead creasing. “Are you ok? What happened?”  
Harry shakes his head, collapsing into an armchair. “You really don’t wanna know.”  
“I think we do, mate. The last few times you and Malfoy had some dramatic moment, someone almost died. Or did die.” Ron mutters.

“No one almost died. Well, I almost died from a heart attack, but that was because...well.” Harry sits up, elbows on his knees, and stares at the ground. “Malfoy said he used to love me.”  
There’s a stunned silence for a few seconds. Then, finally, Ron speaks up. “Are you sure he said that?”  
“Yes! I’m not deaf. He definitely told me he used to love me.” Harry looks up sharply, just in time to see them give each other The Look. “And I’m not obsessed with him! Stop doing that!”

“Ok, ok, Harry.” Hermione soothes. “What did you say to him after that?”  
“I didn’t get the chance to say anything. My spell must have worn off when I got surprised, cause he just opened the door and ran. I lost him on the third floor.”  
“Your spell? Harry, what spell did you cast?”  
Harry flushes, very aware that Hermione would hex him into oblivion for using Veritaserum. “I just locked the door. He would’ve left the second I walked in if I hadn’t! And I needed to know…”  
“Mate…” Ron’s voice is heavy with disappointment.

The anger flares up without warning, burning his veins. “What?! What would you have done if you thought your friends might die if you didn’t know?! Why else would the fucking ferret have come to Hogwarts?! To spread love and joy?! No!!!”  
“Oh, Harry… Haven’t you read the papers?” Hermione cuts in, her voice pleading.   
His anger fades away, replaced with confusion. “What? Hermione, you know I can’t stand the things they put about me.”  
“It’s part of their sentence. Malfoy and Nott. They had to come back so they could be watched.” Ron finishes, watching Harry’s face carefully.  
He slumps back into his chair. All this time, he’s been watching Malfoy for literally no reason. And now he’s just drugged him and forced him to confess something when Malfoy had genuinely wanted people to forgive him, probably so Malfoy’s life at Hogwarts would be easier. He’d even said so under Veritaserum, and Harry had ignored and distrusted it because he’s too caught up in a war that’s already over.

“I’ve fucked up.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I used to love the moon, when I was younger, y’know?” Theodore mumbles. He’s lying on his back, Draco pressed up against his side for warmth. The night is frosty, autumn creeping its cold fingers into the air.  
Draco nods. He still loves the moon, especially as it is tonight. It’s almost full, glimmering with a silver light, only a sliver from the edge missing. The full moon always has bad things associated with it, and the crescent is for children, but the moon like this is so imperfect that Draco can’t help but love it.

“Now it’s just like an hourglass, and every time I look at it I'm reminded of how much time I have left.” Theodore sighs, staring up and wincing.  
Draco picks up one of Theodore’s hands, tracing his finger over it in letters. He looks concerned by Draco’s refusal to talk, but guesses the letters anyway.  
“D?”   
Draco nods.  
“...I.”  
“S.”  
“F?”  
Draco shakes his head, writing it again.  
“E.”  
“A.”  
“S.”  
“E.”  
“...Question mark. Disease?”  
Draco nods, placing the hand down again.

“Well, sort of. It’s difficult to…” Theodore trails off, eyes roaming over Draco’s face. “If I tell you, you can’t tell anyone. Yeah?”  
Draco nods, a worried frown on his face.  
“I’m… When I was out, in the war, the leader of this particular assignment was Greyback.”  
Draco shudders. He remembers Greyback, prowling around his home, always giving Draco that look whenever he passed. Once, he passed a little too close to him, and Greyback’s arm had come slithering around his waist. He’d jumped back, startled and disgusted. Ever since, Greyback had delighted in being one of Draco’s worst torturers.

A warm hand closes over his violently shaking ones. “Draco. Draco, you’re ok, you’re not in any danger.” Theodore’s voice pulls him back to reality, warmth pushing away the horror. “I don’t have to tell you this, it’ll just make you worse.”  
Draco shakes his head frantically, pleading. If Theodore can’t tell him, he won’t tell anyone, and the worst thing about the war is the loneliness afterwards. He needs to help Theodore. He needs to help him, even if it means going back there for a few seconds.

“If… if you’re sure.” Theodore sounds uncertain, but presses on anyway. “He told me to kill this muggle woman, not because it was part of our plan, but because he just wanted to. I refused. He got angry, threatened me, but I said that he isn’t leader of my pack. He said ‘we’ll see about that’, and carried on.”  
Draco winces. How could Theodore have stood up to him? Draco could never do that. Draco could barely even hold his own in a casual conversation with the lower members, let alone argue with them.

“A few days passed, and he didn’t do anything. Give me dirty looks, sure, but nothing that I actually cared about. Then, another Death Eater told me I had been ordered to search a forest for members of the Order of the Phoenix. Standard job, really, so I wasn’t too suspicious. It was when I apparated there and found a giant grey werewolf in my face that I realised what was going on. By that point, it was too late.”

Theodore lifts his trouser leg up to his knee, revealing a huge bite mark. Draco stares in horror at the puncture wounds, lifting up a finger to touch the skin below it gently.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione and Ron stare at him. He’d recounted the whole story, shame eating him up with every word. Now that he’s said it out loud, he realises how stupid it sounds, all the excuses he made for himself.

“What do you feel about it now?” Hermione asks him gently, a softness in her voice probably copied from the muggle therapist.  
“Bad. I dunno. It sounds really stupid now, and I don’t know why I ever thought that in the first place.”  
“Don’t you think it just sounds like, well…” Ron wrinkles his nose. “...you were just trying to explain why you were watching him?”  
“Why else would I be watching him?”

Hermione and Ron exchange The Look.  
“Perhaps… you were worried about him? And you didn’t like that, so you were angry.”  
“Why would I be worried about him?”  
“Well… What if-” Hermione starts, but Ron cuts her off.

“We need to do this differently.” He rolls back his shoulders, and fixes Harry with an intense gaze. “Describe Draco Malfoy to me.”  
“A prat.” Harry snorts. “Arrogant. Thinks he’s the centre of the universe. Rude. Ridiculously rich. Fu-”  
“Ok, ok. We get it.” Ron sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Describe any positives, at all.”  
Harry scowls. “What’s the point of this?”  
“We’ll get to that. Just do what I tell you.”

“Fine.” Harry rolls his eyes, and thinks. “Uhm… He’s good-looking, or, he was. His friends think he’s funny. His hair is really soft, without that ridiculous gel. He has the most amazing cheekbones ever. He’s very dedicated, in an obsessive sort of way. He always wants to be the best, loves competition, and he’s really smart. His pout when he loses is kinda cute. He’s very close to his friends, and does anything for his family. He doesn’t forget people’s names, or their faces. He is confident, even with teachers, and never backed down from a challenge. He’s probably the most perfect person, minus the insults, in our year group. But then again, he hasn’t been talking at all, so he hasn’t even insulted anyone.”

Harry pauses. Hermione and Ron give each other The Look. And now Harry thinks he knows what The Look is, because his face has gone red and there’s a strange fluttering feeling in his chest.

“Oh. I’m in love with Malfoy, aren’t I?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So now you know. I’m a werewolf. Dad didn’t like it at all, said I had become a creature. He disowned me before the trials even started, chucked me out. I don’t have anything left. Despite all we said about Muggles, they were probably the kindest to me that anyone has ever been. This random guy even gave me a sandwich one night.” He laughs, bitterly, glaring down at the floor.

Draco touches Theo’s arm lightly, making him look up. He takes his palm, but Theo places his other hand over the top.  
“I don’t want to guess. You can tell me. There’s no way I’m going to use your words against you, or make you suffer because of what you say. Do you trust me?”  
Draco nods.  
“Then tell me.”

Theo’s face is open and honest under the light of the stars, eyelashes long and dark. He looks hopeful, brown eyes reflecting Draco’s silver ones back at him. Their hands are intertwined, Theo’s warmth comforting in the cool night air, and Draco tightens his grip around the reassuring strength.  
“I’m sorry.” His voice is meek, barely a whisper in the wind.

“You don’t have to be. It’s not your fault. We’re the same, so if I’m the victim in this, so are you. Don’t ever blame yourself for what happened, Draco. You’re not a monster.”

Draco flinches, gaze snapping away to the rippling lake. He is a monster. He’s killed so many people because he was a coward. He is a coward. A monster and a coward and he has to take the blame because he caused it all, it was him-

“Dragon.” Theo’s fingers find his chin, tilting Draco’s head to look at him. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not true. You are not a monster. No matter what other people say, dragons are beautiful. You are beautiful.”

Without warning, Theo leans forward and their lips lock. He tastes of the smoke, and the alcohol, but his breath is warm and sparks something inside of Draco, something he’s never felt before. He presses into Theo, long fingers sliding to fit around his jaw, the feeling flooding through his veins. He’s alive, for the first time in his life.

They part, Theo’s breath hot against Draco’s face. He smiles, and Draco beams back, the feeling heating up his body. Theo’s eyes shift, pupils enlarging, voice tender.

“I love you, Dragon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, I can't write romantic stuff. Sorry if that was awful... I'm better with angst.


	12. The Malfoy Problem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure what I was doing with this one, but it kinda went ok.
> 
> Sorry for the late update, again, there's a lot of family and friends visiting.
> 
> Also, Happy New Year!!!
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

Harry sits in the common room, waiting. He’s been waiting for a few hours, at least, and still there’s no sign of Malfoy. At this point, all the nerves that have been building up in his chest are a raging dragon, tormenting his sleep-deprived mind. The nightmares had been getting worse, always filled with the faces of his dead friends. Now he knows another face will add to his nightly tortures: Crabbe. He hadn’t known the boy that much, despised him, but he had been another Dudley. Another bully with barely enough brain cells to account for his mass. Dudley has changed, has apologised, but Crabbe will never get the chance.

Just to add to all of this, he’s in love with Malfoy, of all people. Years of daily harassment are nothing compared to Voldemort, but really, nothing can compare to Voldemort. Malfoy had been the cruellest, most persistent person in all of Hogwarts, yet Harry is somehow still in love with the prat. Physical attraction, that’s probably it. Either way, Harry has now attacked Malfoy twice (the ferret was the first to try and hex him in Myrtle’s bathroom, but still). There’s no way he can’t apologise.

The portrait starts to creak open, the Fat Lady complaining about being disturbed yet again. Harry jumps to his feet, bouncing on his toes, his entire speech ready in his mind. Harry has a feeling Hermione would be impressed with the amount of thought that has gone into it. (You don’t really think about a lot of things, Harry, that’s just the way you are). It’s delicate, emotional, not once dipping into the treacherous subject of the war, yet still addressing their tense past. He’s included all his excuses, as well as his apologies, and his thoughts about moving forward into a more tolerable, if not friendly, relationship.

And then Malfoy steps in, his face lit up in such pure happiness Harry is left winded. He’s beautiful, nose and cheeks flushed with the cold, his halo of golden hair fluffed up. The image is perfect, except…  
Except, well, his slender hand is linked into another. Nott’s. The slimy bastard who always giggles at the bullying but is never actually doing it. The one who only actually stepped up in the war, the one who cast crucio a million times and yet still isn’t in Azkaban. Harry wishes desperately that he was, and not holding the hand of the boy that inexplicably makes Harry’s heart explode.

“Potter. Still awake I see.” Theo’s voice is as cold as the air flowing in after them.  
Malfoy’s delighted grin slides off and he ducks behind Nott, fingers clenching tight. Nott doesn’t even wince, like the emotionless freak he is, levelling his blank gaze at Harry.  
The speech flies out of the window. “What? Am I not allowed to sit in my own common room?”

“Whatever. Draco’s staying in my room tonight, so don’t waste your time waiting. You won’t hurt him again, not while he’s with me.” With a flick of his cloak, Nott stalks out, Malfoy trailing close after him.

Harry stares, shame filling his chest. Malfoy had told Nott, which meant it what Harry had done was really, really bad. Malfoy hadn’t even accepted Snape’s help in sixth year, when his life was on the line.  
He sits, staring into the fireplace. He should get help. Not Hermione or Ron, they’ll call him an idiot and he’s too tired to deal with that now. All of his other Hogwarts friends think Harry is a hero, would be disappointed to know what he had done. He needs someone older, wiser, who knows him well enough.

Remus.

Kneeling down by the fireplace, Harry mutters the address and sticks his head in. The room is dark and silent, waiting.  
“Remus!” Harry hisses, intimidated by the place. Luckily, this room is not one he’s visited before, so no ghost of Sirius smiles at him from the corner. All the furniture is stacked in one corner, ready for the renovations.

“Remus!” He hesitantly says, increasing his volume. No response. Harry sighs, ready to pull his head out, when the pattering of feet approaches. He peers about, squinting in the gloom for the sight of his… friend? The word never seems to fit, he’s too much of a teacher to Harry still.

Unfortunately, it is not Remus. Kreacher bends down, sticking his shrivelled face into Harry’s. “Mister Potter.”  
“Hello, Kreacher.” Harry sighs, recoiling away a little. The old house elf is as bitter as ever, yet refuses to leave the house, despite being freed. “Is Remus sleeping?”  
“Mister Lupin is reading. No distractions, that’s what he told poor Kreacher. No distractions, and that’s that.” Kreacher snarls, straightening and turning away.  
“Wait! Could you please tell him I’ve called? It’s important.”  
“No distractions.”  
“Please, Kreacher. I’ll... uhm… visit during the holidays?”

Kreacher narrows his eyes for a few tense seconds, scrutinising Harry. Finally, just before Harry decides to give up and find someone else, he sniffs. “Mister Lupin will want Harry Potter. No distractions don’t mean no Harry Potter.”  
Harry sighs, relieved, as the old house elf hobbles off again. A few minutes later, Remus’s reassuring face appears in the room, concerned.

“Harry? What’s wrong?” He rushes over to sit in front of the fireplace.  
“Does something always have to be wrong when I call you?” Harry jokes, suddenly rethinking his plan. He doesn’t exactly want Remus to know what he did either, but who else can he tell?  
“It does when you call past midnight. What happened?”  
It’s now or never. Taking a deep breath, he launches into a recount of the past two weeks, picking out the suspicious parts and the angry parts and the parts that were too bizarre to be missed. Remus listens in silence, nodding his head, worried expression only growing as he learns more. Finally, Harry finishes, and the quiet settles.

“Harry… perhaps you should stay away from Draco for a while.” Remus concludes, voice soothing.  
Draco? Since when did Remus call Malfoy Draco? Did Harry miss a huge part of their lives during summer?! First Luna, now Remus, then what? Hermione?!  
“But how can I apologise by staying away?” Harry counters, ignoring that particular mystery for now. “I can’t just be watching him snog Nott and not be doing anything. That’ll be horrible.”

‘That happened with Hermione watching Ron and Lavender, and you didn’t exactly help, did you?’ A helpful part of his brain supplies. He shoves it away again. That would have to be thought over later, when he doesn’t have The Malfoy Problem looming over his head.

“I don’t think either of you are in the right frame of mind, Harry.” Remus rubs his hands over his face tiredly. “What you need to focus on is what you will do after Hogwarts, that comes before any trouble with love. You’ve told me Draco ruined much of your time at Hogwarts, so don’t let him ruin another year. This is your final chance to have a peaceful year at Hogwarts.”

Harry frowns, disappointed. This is not the advice he was expecting. He’d thought Remus would have a detailed plan set out to get rid of Nott, apologise to Malfoy, and then win the ferret over. Letting Malfoy go was not even thought of.  
“And I doubt Draco will appreciate your efforts either. I can’t say much, but you know how rough his life will be right now and in the future. He needs to find his feet too, without worrying about his relationship with you. Even if you do manage to somehow apologise to him, the entire time you’ve known him you’ve both hated each other, and he’s bullied you for years. It’ll take more than an apology to work through all that, and it’s not what you need.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At breakfast, Malfoy sits in Nott’s lap. Well, almost. Well, not exactly, but their closeness is so irritating, as is the dramatic flailing of Parkinson’s and Zabini’s arms which threatens to block Harry’s view entirely. Evidently the two of them hadn’t told their friends about it, which sparked the reaction Harry sees now.

“Oh, Harry, we’re so sorry…” Hermione pats his arm, eyes wide and apologetic. He could see their brains clicking and whirring in confusion when Malfoy walked in holding Nott’s hand, wondering why on earth Malfoy is with Nott when Harry is the one who had the love dilemma last night. He’d had to explain, and now the two of them were patting him and offering him more food like this is the worst thing that could ever happen to him.  
Which, Harry supposes, is sort of true now. Without Voldemort, love is the main thing on everyone’s mind.

“It’s alright, Hermione. Remus said I should try to ignore Malfoy.” He sighs, tearing his gaze from the Slytherin table.  
“Good idea, mate. The ferret really isn’t worth moping over.” Ron mumbles through a mouthful of sausage, sending a glare over to where Harry had been looking.  
“Ron…” Hermione raises an eyebrow at him.  
“Sorry, ‘Mione.” He slowly drops the sausage to the plate, chewing with his mouth firmly closed.

“Harry!” Ginny abruptly drops down beside him, half in her quidditch gear. “Can you come to tryouts when you’re done? There’s two seekers and I can’t choose.”  
“Uh, sure, Ginny.” Harry grins, breathing in the familiar smell of wet grass. Quidditch always has the power to cheer him up.  
“Great!” Ginny beams back, stands, steals one of Ron’s turkey legs, and whirls away. She’s always been a little like a hurricane in that sense.

“Harry…” Neville frowns at him, voice quiet beneath Ron’s annoyed ‘Oi!’. “Does Ginny know?”

Oh. Whoops.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“That was brilliant, Harry! I never would have thought of testing that… I guess that’s why you’re the seeker and not me.” Ginny gushes as they walk back to the castle. Harry had spotted the right boy almost instantly, but still ran a few tests so the other didn’t feel useless. It had felt good, watching them spin around in the air, yet Harry still ached to be up there himself.

“Why don’t we go celebrate tomorrow? I bet you could convince McGonagall to let me go to Hogsmeade with you.” Ginny carries on, winking a him.  
The lifting mood Harry had felt crashes down instantly. “Ginny… we need to talk.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ginny was mad. Super mad. She’s still mad now, thinks Harry miserably as he sits in Charms, struggling to concentrate on Flitwick’s complicated wand motions. He hadn’t managed to get more than a few words out before she had flown into her rage, yelling that she’d known all along and that she’d even bet on it but had lost the bet because Harry had been too much of a coward to tell her. In fact, that had been most of the argument. She seemed more focused on the fact that he hadn't told her rather than the fact he was breaking up with her for good.

There had been a quiet moment where she’d settled down enough to tell him she didn’t mind that he was gay, she was actually bi herself, and then as soon as he opened his mouth to question that, she started up on her tangent again.

Gay. It isn’t a word Harry is fond of, even now that the word describes him. The only people who ever said it to him were Dudley and his gang, back when they taunted him with every name under the sun. Gay had been popular later on. In Hogwarts, there isn’t ever much talk of anything beyond kissing, despite the fact that many students have done far more than that. If a girl wants to not get pregnant, she has to go to Pomfrey to learn the contraceptive charm. Of course, this means that people like Parkinson often hang about the Hospital Wing to see who’s going in without injuries, and therefore the entire school gets to know.  
Harry didn’t learn this intentionally. Hermione had been raging about it a few days ago, complaining about how they should all be taught this stuff in classes, to avoid the embarrassment. Unfortunately, that had been the point at which Harry finally tuned in, and now it can’t get out of his head. Not just because it’s weird and he’s always gonna overthink seeing a girl going to the Hospital Wing, but because there’s a reason Hermione knows this.

Anyway, the point is, sexuality just isn’t talked about.

“Hello Harry.”  
“Hey, Luna.”  
“I heard that you’re gay.”

Harry, only half paying attention to everything around him, immediately focuses on Luna’s dreamy face. The corridor they’re in is mostly empty, thank Merlin, but there are still a few people about.  
“Luna!” Harry yelps, grabbing her by the arm and leading her into an empty classroom. “You can’t just say that in the middle of a corridor!”  
“Oh. Sorry, Harry.”  
“It’s fine.” He rolls his eyes, sitting heavily on a desk. “Who else has she decided to tell?”  
“Who?”  
“Ginny, of course. Who else?”  
“Oh, no, she hasn’t told anyone.”

Harry frowns, bewildered. “Then how do you know?”  
“I listen.” Luna smiles, tilting her head and pausing for a beat, as though emphasising her point. “Not many people listen anymore.”  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
Luna shrugs nonchalently, then fixes her eyes on him again and proclaims happily, “I’m gay too.”

Harry stares. “You are?”  
“Yes.” She sits on a chair, swinging her legs. “Dumbledore was too.”  
What?  
“So’s Draco. And Ginny’s bi. Seamus and Dean are gay and together, but everyone’s knows that already.”  
They do?!  
“Oh, and Neville’s asexual heteromantic.”  
What on earth is that?!

“Luna, how do you know all this?!” Harry gapes at her.  
“As said, I listen. And I might have helped some people realise it. My mum knew a lot about these things, she told me about it when I asked her.”

“Can you tell me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any requests, please leave in comments section.
> 
> Thank you!  
\- E.D.


	13. Winter Is Coming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been far too long since I last updated... and this chapter is basically like 'I've forgotten all my plans, let's make a new one'... and this was the best title I could come up with... things are not going well.
> 
> Even so, here's the new chapter. It'll be a little slow at the beginning, it's just cause I've skipped over a month of time and the situation needs to be explained. For the drarry shippers reading this, I swear they'll actually interact again soon! I just needed Theo and Draco together so that he improves a little, and now that he has, I can start working on the drarry.
> 
> With that said, enjoy!  
\- E.D.

The days pass, each one a little better than the last. It takes time and a whole lot of encouragement from the Slytherins, but eventually Draco no longer wakes up with the sense that something terrible will happen. Food is still hard, each bite making him want to throw up, but he can’t refuse when Theo does those puppy eyes at him. Occasionally, he even manages to write to his mother, detailing the mundane lessons and thanking her for the constant supply of books.

These, he keeps in the room he shares with Theo and Neville. McGonagall had refused to let him switch rooms officially, but when he and Theo had arrived back at the dorms, another bed had appeared in Theo’s room. Neville, more of a saviour than Potter at this point, had acted like Draco was there all along. Surprisingly, Potter still hasn’t confronted Draco since that night, although he is spending far too much time with Luna for Draco’s liking. He hates himself for doubting the dazed girl, but Potter is far too persistent to not try and turn her against Draco.

Either way, life is improving steadily. It’s now November, and Draco spends most of his time holed up in the library or the common room, reading one of his books while his friends chat around him. The library visits are always more tense, since there are still the odd few slurs thrown his way, but no one dares to say anything to him when the head girl is there too.

That’s another thing. Granger, the one person Draco thought might hate him more than Potter, has started joining him in the library. It began when he had been by himself in there, while his friends were all in lessons, and she had passed by.

“Oh! You’re reading Hamlet?” She had stopped, glancing at the cover of his book.

He’d startled, still absorbed in the horror of the ghost, and glanced up at her. Speech didn’t come, again, despite Theo’s constant reassurances. After Potter, he couldn’t risk it.

She’d dropped into a seat beside him, leaning over to see the page. “I never thought I’d see you reading muggle books, even if it is Hamlet.”

He’d stared at her still, worried. Was this was a way to make Draco drop his guard, so Potter could swoop in and attack him again? He’d waited, glancing about the library for those poisonous green eyes, yet none came.

Granger had watched him, expression falling into pity. “I’m sorry, Malfoy. Harry should never have done what he did, but he only wanted to-”

She’d stopped, taken aback as Draco glared at her. How on earth could she defend Potter if she’d known?! Why would she, model student as she is, not report him to McGonagall?! No one would believe the Slytherins, so none of them had tried. Golden Girl herself could have convinced McGonagall that the Giant Squid was actually a very small pixie.

“Sorry.” She’d looked away, flushing. “I didn’t mean to… It’s unforgivable, but I’m his friend, and… Please say you understand.”

Reluctantly, he’d nodded. He’d done the same for his father, after all, defending him and breaking Potter’s nose, despite hating him for abandoning them. You’d try to excuse the actions of a serial killer if you loved them.

After that, they’d read together in silence until the lesson time ended. Once or twice, they’d bump into each other again in the library, and carry out the same steps: awkward chat, slipping into silence. As more weeks passed, this happened more often, until eventually Draco realised she must have worked out his timetable so she could find him. He finds it a little too stalker-ish, but it’s nice having the Female Favourite on his side.

Especially after the incidents of the past few weeks. Apparently the hate from the other houses had been getting to some Slytherins more than Drachad realised, as a series of light pranks had turned into something far more malicious. At first, it had just been quills charmed to say exactly was in the writer’s head, aimed at the worst of the bullies. Harmless, except for the fact that they had received detention for handing in essays full of hate towards the Slytherins, and occasionally some very dirty messages about a certain girl or boy.

Inevitably, things escalated. Those on the receiving ends of the pranks were only worse towards the Slytherins and whoever defended them, despite McGonagall's increasingly desperate calls for peace. Now, it’s common to see a student breaking their bones by tripping up on steps, or another seat in class becoming empty as someone falls foul of a hair removal charm. Luckily, the worst Draco has been subjected to is someone setting his robes on fire, and thankfully ‘aguamenti’ is a spell the eighth years know well.

Even so, it makes moving around the castle incredibly difficult. The Golden Trio get a free pass, annoyingly, because who would dare attack them?

No one, obviously.

Until tonight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Draco, darling, what is Horklump juice used for?” Pansy sighs, rubbing at the ink stains on her hand irritably. They’re in the common room on a Sunday night, finishing up the last of their homework for the coming week.

Draco flicks his wand in the air, leaving a smoky black trail behind. This had been Theo’s idea, even though Blaise claims credit for it. Instead of struggling to get the words out, he just writes in the air, and vanishes it when they read it.   
‘Healing properties’.

“Thank you, you’re the best.” She mumbles, scrawling it down reluctantly.

“I need to go ‘powder my nose’.” Theo gets to his feet, mimicking Pansy’s whine after she’d complained about him using ‘loo’ so much. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

“Don’t use the one third from the right, Futton in fourth year got soaked by it last night.” Blaise comments idly as Theo walks out, already finished his minimal amount of work.

“Another Gryffindor?” Pansy rolls her eyes, throwing down her sheet of paper. “They’re so overdramatic. Barely any Slytherins use those facilities anyway, the ones in the dungeons are far closer.”

“The ones in the dungeons aren’t used by an ex-Death Eater.” Blaise retorts, then glances over at Draco. “I’m thinking that we should make a bubble of protection around you, one of the strong ones.”

Draco shakes his head, unbothered by the prospect of a coming prank. He’s got a feeling he’s accidentally swallowed a Felix Felicis potion. Somehow, no matter how many times people have created traps specifically for him, someone else has fallen into them instead. Minus the fire incident, he’s completely unharmed. And if he doesn’t get caught in one of the less harmful traps soon, he knows that when he is caught, it won’t be pretty.

Hours pass, and eventually Pansy falls asleep on her parchment. Blaise carries her upstairs to bed, nodding goodnight to Draco, who turns back to his still unfinished DADA essay. He’s almost finished, but the last question is asking his opinion on whether Dementors should guard Azkaban, which is practically begging for trouble. He’s really starting to hate Mrs. Heartkiller. First making him see… that, then asking him whether the creatures who can suck all happiness out of you should guard his father.

Theo steps into the room just as he’s contemplating writing the most sarcastic answer ever. He looks up, rubbing the haze out of his eyes, and sees the huge grin on Theo’s face. Draco twirls a question mark into the air, tilting his head, but Theo only beams wider.

“Never mind, you’ll see in the morning.” He skips over, shoving Draco’s essay aside and pulling him onto the sofa next to the fireplace, where the weasel and Granger usually snog each other’s faces off when they’re not yelling at each other. “I think we deserve some alone time, don’t you?”

Draco smiles, excitement bubbling up in his chest. He hasn’t told his mother yet, for fear of her reaction, but he’s hoping the news will get to her through the school gossip. At least then she could process it before he needs to tell her, and perhaps the rejection will be softer. For now, he tries to ignore the future, and focuses on the taste of Theo’s lips against his own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Draco wakes up, he’s alone. This is common, as Theo wakes early most days to restore all the defensive charms on the common rooms, their bags, books, wands, quills, and even ink. So he’s not concerned as he changes into a soft purple sweater with his usual black jeans, beanie on as always, robes trimmed with green snagging on every one of Neville’s plants. Some of the other eighth years have followed his lead, swapping parts of their uniform for casual clothes, and the professors don’t seem to be too bothered.

Like how when he walks down into the common room, and Abbot is wearing a crop top under a see-through blouse. Or how Corner has changed his school shoes for trainers. Or how Potter has decided to cover himself in red gems.  
Wait- What?

Everyone is in the common room, clustered in small groups or gathered around Potter, arguing furiously. More than a few poisonous looks are thrown the way of Pansy, Blaise and Theo, who are whispering together by the window. Draco walks over to them, worry itching at his lungs. Was this another prank? On the Boy Who Lived Twice? What sort of idiot would do that and not expect some serious consequences?!

“I hate to admit it, but it is kind of funny.” Pansy smirks a little, making Blaise slap her lightly on the arm.

“It is not funny at all!” He hisses, tesne body screaming anxiety. “You think he’s just going to laugh this off? Do you even know Potter at all?! House pride is everything to those idiots.”

“I think they deserve it.” Theo is frowning, sending glares at anyone who dares look their way. “They’ve been attacking everyone from our house, so why should Potter’s lot not be involved? I’m betting they’ve even been organising most of the attacks in their house.”

Draco shakes his head, nudging Theo’s arm to get his attention. ‘Granger doesn’t like it’.

“Of course she doesn’t, she’s a stuck up bitch.” Pansy snipes, rolling her eyes. “I doubt she’d break the rules to save her own life. But Weaselbee and Scarhead, on the other hand…”

‘She’s not a bitch’.

Pansy stares at him. “Have you hit your head or something?”

“We’ll talk about Draco’s new-found sympathy for the brainbox later, for now we need to decide how to handle this.” Blaise buts in, huffing in exasperation.

“There’s nothing to handle. None of us were involved, so we can just leave everyone else to figure it out.” Pansy stands. “I’m hungry, can we go already?”

‘But what happened?’ Draco flicks his wand, anger at Pansy and worry at the tension in the air mixing together like lemon juice and milk in his stomach.

“Someone cursed the Gryffindor house points jar to explode when Potter passed it.” Blaise replies grimly. “Some gems stuck to him, and the rest are floating about the castle as insults about Gryffindors.”

As if on cue, a stream of red gems whizz into the room, forming themselves into ‘Lions are too dumb to catch snakes’. The words spin around the weasels’ head before he bursts them apart with a spell, face a furious scarlet.

With one glance around at the enraged faces, Blaise nervously grabs Pansy’s hand and pulls her out, Theo and Draco following. This time, they head straight to the kitchens, dodging any group that approaches. The second word spreads to the rest of the school, the four of them could be in mortal peril. No one loves Potter and hates Death Eaters more than the students who live with them.

Yet Theo, when he thinks no one is watching, grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you guess who did it???


	14. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not actually the end! Just felt like an appropriate title.
> 
> How are you all? Good? Great. I'm fine, thanks for asking. How's Draco? Not so great. I have kept with the theme of every chapter being uneccessarily dramatic and painful, on that front you will never be disappointed. Fluff? Not in this one, unfortunately. Soon, I promise.
> 
> Alright, I think I've babbled enough. Probably too much.
> 
> Any ideas, please leave in the comments, I love hearing what you think! And apologies for spelling and grammar mistakes, I don't yet proofread my work.
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

Harry isn’t angry. He really isn’t. At least, that’s what he’s telling himself under the screaming impulse to go knock someone’s teeth out. It’s the one year where he doesn’t have to worry about trying to survive, and now some stupid Slytherins are ruining it. As usual.

There’s no doubt it was the Slytherins, not by the smug smirks that most of them are parading about in. He passes a small group of them now, sixth year girls, who glance at the red jewels clinging to his hair and giggle. Fist tightening inside his pocket, he flicks his wand at them, sending a sudden gust of wind into their hair. They squeal, frantically trying to save their hairstyles, and he moves on. It’s petty, he knows, but after a full day of the snide whispers, he’s had enough.

Maybe it’s Malfoy’s lot. He had basically attacked him for no reason, and Slytherins aren’t the sort to turn the other cheek. A pit has grown in his stomach since that had happened. Every time he learns something more about Malfoy, from Luna or Hermione, he feels the guilt of what he did weighing him down. But Remus had said to stay away, so stay away he did, even when Malfoy fell asleep in Nott’s lap, and when Nott carried him up to bed. Harry wants to be the one doing that.

Except he shouldn’t, and it’s wrong. Not because it’s gay, Luna’s managed to stop those thoughts, but because it’s the boy who bullied him and then almost killed Dumbledore. He doesn’t want to like Malfoy. It isn’t fair that he likes his smile, and his sarcasm, and his ambition, and his ridiculously soft hair. He hates the way he’s now looking back over his memories and reassessing them from Malfoy’s point of view. Back then, the ferret was a richer Dudley. Now, he knows it’s so much more complicated than that.

“Harry!” Luna’s voice, sharp and urgent, snaps at him from behind. He turns, frowning, to find her dreamy expression twisted in concern. “You need to go to the fourth floor corridor. Now! Don’t ask questions! Go!”

The portraits twitter around him as he sets off into a sprint, abandoning his bag with Luna. It’s only when he’s halfway there that he starts to question her blind panic, wondering if this is actually just an elaborate prank. Real danger, or prank? How can he tell? Either he goes there and risks falling into a prank, or he doesn’t go there and risks someone getting hurt. Without realising it, he’s slowed his pace, doubts falling thick and heavy.

“Go, boy!” A portrait suddenly barks from beside him. “Pick up those feet and get running!”

He glances at him, recognising the man from somewhere. The knight jogs along with him, shoving disgruntled people out of his way as he moves from lush greenery to taverns, glaring at Harry the entire time.

“What are you staring at?! Luna may not move too quickly, but I am Sir Leofwine the Rapid! Onward, boy!” The knight speeds off, hollering and blowing a trumpet.

Shaking his head, Harry pushes his legs to their limit trying to keep up. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the bizarreness of Hogwarts.

Harry’s puffing like Slughorn by the time he nears the corridor. If this does turn out to be a prank, he won’t have the strength to fight it off, but he turns the corner anyway.

Four figures, cloaks abandoned, are tightly packed around something on the ground. Wait, no. Not something - someone. Two of them are laughing, spitting, yelling. The other two are mostly silent, throwing out the occasional insult, but they are pummelling the person curled up on the ground as though it’s Voldemort himself.

Harry, heart pumping, rips out his wand from his pocket and throws a spell, any spell, at them. In the end, it doesn’t even come out as a spell, just a raw wave of magic that throws the four away from the one in the centre. They yelp, crunching against walls and skidding across floors as Harry rushes forward.

“How dare you!” He spits at them, adrenaline fizzing through him, awakening every sense in his body. “You don’t ever do that, not in this place!”

“H-harry?!” One of them, Harry is too furious to recognise faces, stands. “But- but- they broke the points jar! And they-”

“Shut up! Don’t dare do this again!” He snaps, pointing his wand at them.

They step back, hands up, utter confusion on their face. “I’m s-sorry?”

Why are they confused? They shouldn’t be confused. All the other Slytherins have run away from him or yelled something about unfairness. Harry lowers his wand, racing mind calming enough to see the red trimming of their jumper. It’s a Gryffindor, not a Slytherin. A Gryffindor, beating another person up. A group of Gryffindors, beating up a defenseless…

Harry looks over at the person shaking on the floor, and his mind stops functioning. He’d recognise that beanie anywhere.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As if this day couldn’t get any worse, Potter starts yelling at them. Draco wishes he could sink into the floor and disappear forever. Not only is the pain in his ribs starting to make him think he’s got a broken rib that will pierce his heart and kill him, but the pain of possibly having to now fight off Potter is making him feel woozy. Or maybe that’s the knock to the head from when he first fell.

“Malfoy?”

There it is. Merlin, Potter, you really love to walk in on the worst moments, don’t you? Draco’s surprised that he wasn’t there when that snake was branded onto his arm.

“Malfoy, can you hear me?”

Footsteps. The others have run off, now that Potter is distracted. Unfortunately, Draco didn’t see their faces before he fell. Not like he could tell McGonagall or Slughorn anyway. Potter almost murdered him in sixth year, and got away with detention. Four Gryffindors only kicking him around a bit? They’d get a medal.

“I’m going to take you to the Hospital Wing, alright?”

Hm. He supposes he might need that. The ringing in his ears really isn’t pleasant, and maybe Poppy will give him more of that potion that helps him sleep.  
(The name, Draco. Tell me the name.)  
Oh, shut up, Sev. No one cares what the name of the fucking potion is, as long as he doesn’t have to see death every night.  
(I’m sorry. I failed you, and your mother.)  
You never cared about him. You cared about Potter, like every other person in this bloody place.  
…  
See. It’s true.

“I’m picking you up now.”

Warm arms wrap around him, lifting his body away from the cold floor. Pain stabs into his ribs for a moment, making him hiss in pain, but then it fades as the arms adjust him.

“Sorry…”

He opens his eyes, squinting out at the blurry world, but the light is too bright and burns him. “Saint Potter.” he mumbles, then falls with relief into the darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry stares down at the battered boy, sleeping peacefully, and feels his heart twisting painfully. The Gryffindors had thought Harry would be on their side. What if they’d done this to Malfoy in revenge for what had happened to Harry? Yet again, he’s the reason that the ferret is hurt.

This needs to stop. No matter what Remus said, Malfoy needs to know that Harry doesn’t hate him, and so does the rest of the school. Harry has to talk to him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Draco wakes up alone. Everything hurts, despite the soft wrappings, and Draco prays that Poppy will return to give him something to stop it. The potion to help him sleep, preferably. Nothing can hurt when he’s asleep.

Instead, it’s Theo who comes first. He runs in, bag swinging wildly from his shoulder, and drops into a chair beside Draco. His stony face breaks the second he knows no one is watching, worry and fear in his eyes. “I heard rumours but I didn’t think they’d actually have- I’m so sorry, Dragon! Who did it?!”

So. Potter told the whole school then. No doubt he told everyone how pathetic he had been, mumbling nonsense and just accepting Potter’s help. Defeated, Draco shakes his head slightly, wincing at the throbbing of his head.

“I’ll kill them. I will.” Theo’s face darkens, grabbing Draco’s hand and holding it tightly. “No one hurts you without feeling the consequences. They already took everything from us, why do they need to hurt us too?!” He drops the hand, standing and starting to pace furiously. “It was a stupid prank, smashing up their precious little house points, there’s no reason to fucking attack one of us! Those Gryffindors had it coming. They’ve been torturing us the second we got here, and the professors have done nothing! Why is it so wrong to take it into our hands?”

Draco watches him, the seeds of dread bursting open under this new shower of words. ‘Take it into our own hands’. ‘Had it coming’. The grinning. The smug sniggering every time one of those words floated past, turning another Gryffindor red. He’d seen this coming for a while, just didn’t want to admit it. Theo’s mask doesn’t mean he’s calm. It means he’s planning how to get revenge later.

‘Why did you do it?’

Theo pauses, anger melting into the face of a dog caught stealing food. “I... You’ve seen how they’ve been treating us! It isn’t right! I can’t just sit there and take it, that isn’t fair, that isn’t what a Slytherin should do. We fight back.”

‘We killed their families.’

“So?” Theo folds his arms, scowling. “We did what we had to do, we shouldn’t have to suffer for that. The war’s over, like McGonagall said. What’s done is done, and I refuse to spend the rest of my life regretting that.”

Draco stares at him, dread bubbling into something entirely different. ‘How can you say that? You-’   
It’s taking too long, and Theo’s already ignoring him, he can see it on his face, and Draco’s furious aren’t impressing him, and Draco’s so sick of everyone treating him like a defenseless kid, because he’s not, his words are valid, he can’t be ignored, and- and- and-

Theo stumbles back as Draco’s yelling punches inside his mind, smashing every barrier like a mallet to sugar.

“They have to suffer EVERY day for what we did!”

“Draco-” 

“HOW can you say you don’t regret so many people DYING directly at YOUR hands?!”

“Draco, stop i-” 

“HOW can you say that?! I regret it EVERY waking moment, WHY should you feel NOTHING?!”

“It hurts!”

“You’re no better than HIM!”

“STOP!!!”

Silence. Draco’s hands are clenched in his covers, and at some point he must have lost control because his cheeks are wet and he has no idea why. Theo’s hands drop from his ears, wiping away a thin trail of blood dribbling down.

Draco did that.

He watches the red liquid drip to the floor in horror, the red haze draining away to leave a hollow fear.

“I suppose we have opposing views, then.” Theo whispers, cheeks flushing. “I’m sorry. I won’t bother you again. Goodbye, Draco.”

Without another word, Theo wanders past a shocked Poppy to the door, and leaves. Draco doesn’t stop him.


	15. Tell Me The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments! There was a load of them last chapter, I really love reading through and seeing your opinions. Theo will be the focus of a chapter soon, just to explain why he said the things he did, but for now he's going to be put to the side. After all, this is a drarry fanfic.
> 
> Again, any ideas you have for future chapters (or even ideas for one-shots, I'm thinking about writing more of those), please put them in the comments. Thank you!
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

“Draco, darling. Are you in there?”

There’s no response. Pansy huffs, worry bubbling into irritation in her stomach. Draco had hid in his room for two whole days now, refusing to answer anyone coming to the door. When she’d asked Theo about it, he’d given a noncommittal shrug and said they’d broken up, then wandered off with that dumb flat look of his. She’s starting to regret ever letting him join them on the train.

They know he’s alive, at least. The house elves in the kitchen, overhearing their conversation, told them they deliver food to him every day. Apparently, they’re the only beings he lets into the room, despite the fact that Potter and Michael now have nowhere to sleep. They’ve been jumping around the other dorms for the past few nights, but she can tell Michael is starting to get annoyed. Potter is curiously quiet.

“This is the last day you’re wallowing in self-pity. Tomorrow, I’m gonna drag your ass out of there so we can eat ice cream and plan revenge on Nott, ok?”

No response.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She rolls her eyes, turns, and marches to the common room. Blaise is focused on his homework, a huge essay due for the next day, so she sprawls over it and smiles at him sweetly. “Hey, Blaaaaiiiise?”

He drops his quill, smirking up at her. “Whatever it is, Pans, the answer is no.”

“Awww, come on!” She pouts. “Aren’t you curious about how Looney Lovegood knew about your obsession with phoenixes?”

“No.” He leans back in his chair, draping a hand over the back of it. “It’s not hard to guess. Phoenixes are fabulous, I’m fabulous. There’s a strong link.”

She snorts, standing and folding her arms. “There’s no way you’re as fabulous as a phoenix. Only I could achieve that.” With that, she flicks her hair and turns to march off, waiting for him to argue back.

“That’s true.”

She spins back around, narrowing her eyes at him. He’s looking back down at his work, cheeks dusted pink, hand clutching the quill a little too tightly.

“What did you say?” She challenges, confused by this sudden turn of events.

“I said ‘that’s true’. Only you could be as fabulous as a phoenix, Pans.” He mumbles, not daring to meet her eyes.

Woah. Woah. This is getting far too weird for Pansy’s liking. Time to back out of this situation real quick. “Ok.” She squeaks, backing up and fleeing the common room as fast as she can. Phew. What was that about?! They were having a completely normal conversation, and then suddenly Blaise had to agree with her. Agree. Like they hadn’t been at each other’s throats for the past seven years about that precise topic.

Right as she thinks she might turn around and demand an explanation, she hears a voice. Potter.

“...and I’m sorry I wasn’t there in time. I… I didn’t realise how bad things were getting. I promise it won’t happen again, Malfoy.”

Oh Merlin. Could this day get any more bizarre?

“I know… I know what you did after the battle. Remus - I mean, Remus Lupin -gave me the letter last night. Will you please let me in?”

After the battle? What on earth is he on about? Everyone knows the Malfoys hid in their Manor until the trials came. How is that anything important?

There’s a slight click, then a creak, and Pansy has to peek around the corner, just to be sure. But it is. The door of Draco’s room is open, and Potter, anxiety written across his ridiculously stupid face, is stepping inside. The door clicks shut behind him.

Pansy can’t help but feel hurt. She’s been at that door every hour she can over the past two days, trying to convince him to just speak to her (metaphorically, of course, considering his worrying muteness), and yet the second Potter asks to come in, Draco lets him. Has he been drugged, again? Or under a spell; the Imperius? She wouldn’t put it past him.

Enough is enough. Pansy needs to find out what’s going on, both with Blaise and with Draco. Who would know?

Theo? No, he’s broken up with Draco, he wouldn’t know about him now. Unless Potter made Draco do something to push Theo away? If that is the case, perhaps Theo would be the best person to talk to. Even so, she would rather go to someone else. Theo’s face is overwhelmingly punchable right now.

Granger? She would know about everything that’s going on with Potter, and she’s been sitting with Draco in the library. As irritating as that is, being replaced by the Mudblood, Pansy can see that Granger must at least feel more sympathetic towards Draco. Yet talking to Granger would mean Granger tells Potter, and if Potter is drugging or cursing Draco, he would try to get rid of Pansy. Not good.

Trelawney? No. Yes, Trelawney is a seer, and Pansy adores her flair for the dramatics, but everyone knows she has almost no skill at all. Besides, Pansy doesn’t want to know about the future, she wants to know the present.

Not Blaise. Not Michael. Not the weasel. Not any of the teachers. Not Loo-...

Looney? She did know about Blaise’s phoenix craze, which is actually very hard to guess. She knew about Draco’s silence before any of them, showing that it wasn’t just him refusing to speak. She knew about Potter’s disgusting attack on Draco. She knows exactly who Pansy is looking for every time she runs past her, and exactly where that person is.

Pansy never thought she’d think these words, but Looney Lovegood is her best bet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...so therefore, Kingsley Shacklebolt is under the charm of a veela. It’s so clear to Luna. The wall against her back is cold, seeping through her shirt. Perhaps she should stand, walk around a little, chat to Madame Flowerbury on the wall next to the Charms classroom. Or maybe not, considering Flowerbury is so full of nargles these days.

“Lovegood.”

It’s the Pansy girl, Draco’s friend. “Hello Pansy.”

“Why did Blaise tell me I was fabulous?”

Oh, this. The snake in the common room had told Sir Pedlington, who had translated it to Aryana Griffith, who had whispered it to Red Hawk, who mentioned it to Luna as he was chasing Light Breath. Luna likes Light Breath more than Red Hawk, but she would never tell him, or he would stop telling her what he hears. It’s interesting. Especially when he tells her what Grendel Rouge, an expert in love, sees.

“He likes you.” Luna smiles, remembering how excited Grendel had been when she told her in person. ‘All those looks he gives her, all those looks she gives him! It’s delightful! Oh, how I wish I could be young and in love again…’

Pansy scowls at her, folding her arms. “Oh, you can’t be serious. He cannot. That’s just not possible. He’s hexed me fifty times every month!”

“Two times this month.” The portrait behind her whispers, and she repeats it to Pansy, who suddenly looks gobsmacked.

“You could tell him you like him back.” Luna suggests. “I’m pretty sure he’s straight, even though he did kiss Draco once.”

“He what?!”

“Oh, it wasn’t serious.” She reassures, smiling back at the giggling pixie in the portrait behind her. “At least, not for Blaise. Draco told me they’d laughed it off, since they were both drunk and high at the time.”

“When did he tell you this?” Pansy sits down heavily on the floor opposite Luna, face amused. Or it could be exasperated. Or annoyed. Luna doesn’t really know. The pixie behind her can tell her later if she asks him, but she’s never talked to them before, so they could disappear right after this conversation. She hopes not. The portraits are always so much nicer than other students, since no one else talks to them a lot.

“At the Manor.” She smiles at the memory, one of the few bright sparks in the darkness of that time. “He brought us food, and we talked as long as he was allowed. When he told me about Blaise, I tried to help him in return, by- oh. Can you not tell him I told you?” She’d promised not to tell anyone when he’d asked, and now she’d broken that twice. Maybe he’ll find out, and not want to be her friend anymore. She hopes he doesn’t. She likes being his friend, on his good days.

“I.. sure. I’ll not tell him if you tell me what Potter has done to get in Draco’s room.”

Oh. That was fast. None of the portraits had told her they were already together and… in each other’s rooms. She can feel her face heating up, so she looks down to let her hair fall over it. “Uhm…”

“You know, don’t you?” Pansy leans forward, staring at her intently. “What did he do?”

“Shouldn’t you talk to Draco about this?” She whispers, nervously picking at her skirt. Pansy’s closeness is making her face heat up more. She probably looks like a tomato. She hopes not. It’s not like Pansy will ever like her in that way, considering the girl is straight, but she’d rather not be thought of as ugly by the most attractive girl in the school. Except for Ginny, and Astoria, and Lily from Hufflepuff, of course.

“He won’t talk to me.” Pansy sighs in frustration. “Tell me, or I’ll tell him what you said.”

Morgana’s silky hair. Well, if they’re already together, it’ll make no difference if she told her now. “Harry… Harry’s been talking to me since he found out he was gay…”

“The Chosen One is gay?” She abruptly looks delighted, scarlet lips curving into a smile.

“Yes… don’t tell him you heard it from me.” Luna mutters, shame filling her.

“I won’t, I promise. Oh, I really should talk to you more often!” Pansy squeals. “Anyway, what has that got to do with Draco?”

“Uhh… he might… like him.”

“Like who?”

“Draco.”

The grin vanishes quicker than a HIdebehind. “He… likes Draco? As in, like likes?”

She cringes. “Yes.”

This was a bad idea. She should stick to talking only to herself and portraits from now on. Or getting a pet would be good, one that sits there and listens, without understanding a word of what she’s saying. She should get a kneazle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Potter. That fucking lunatic. Pansy knows she appears crazed from the frightened looks she’s getting, but that dungheap of a wizard has crossed the line. First, he decides he likes Draco, so evidently he set all of this up just so he could get him.

The veritaserum. All to know the truth from Draco, so he can exploit every weakness he learns. Then he pushes Draco into Theo’s arms, knowing that they would eventually split up and Draco would be sad and vulnerable. Finally, he casts Imperius, knowing that with Draco’s lowered defenses he could overpower him easily. The Imperius lets him control Draco, do what he wants with him. Now he’s in Draco’s room, with Draco under his control, and Potter fucking likes him.

Pansy is going to hex that psycho to oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luna: :)  
Pansy: >:(  
Luna: :(  
Pansy: >>:(((


	16. Into The Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating this instead of sleeping, because I the longer I stay awake, the longer it takes for school to arrive, right? I can't wait for sixth form when I don't have to learn what electromagnetism is...
> 
> This is why I envy people at Hogwarts, cause yes they did go through a war, but they only had to learn how to do cool spells and potions! I would kill to be able to say a word and make someone puke slugs.
> 
> As always, any suggestions or ideas, please leave in the comments section! I love hearing what you think.
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

For the second time in his life, Theodore didn’t know what to do.

He had focused on studying in the Before, to impress his family and live up to their high expectations. Even when he was a child, running about their grand house, he had spent most of his time in the library, trying to cast spells with his mother’s wand. They never worked that well, but he was always delighted at the small showers of sparks or bangs.

Then there was the After, when everything fell apart. He couldn’t go home then, with his father in prison and his mother long gone. It was then that he felt her loss most strongly. He’d needed someone to turn to, to tell him what to do when he knew his future was going to be a mess. So he’d gone to Snape, hoping for some sort of advice, however meagre. Snape hadn’t liked that. A Slytherin doesn’t show weakness, a Slytherin fights back, a Slytherin uses his own brain. ‘Don’t make a disgrace of our house again’. The door had slammed in his face, leaving him to wipe away his tears.

The war had been hard, yes, but at least then his path was clear. Do what you were told, and if you don’t, you die. Besides, it’s all for a good Slytherin cause. He may not like it, and he may let some people slip past, but for the most part he settled himself into his role well and impressed his father. Once the war was over, he could let it all go, marry a nice pureblood, and gather his rewards for his dedicated work. That was it.

Fate never goes the way he wants it to.

Here he is, trapped in a school of people who despise him, and the only person he’s opened up to in years attacked him. It was only a prank. He was only trying to defend himself, because Merlin knows he needs to. All those bruises and cuts didn’t form by themselves.

Theodore glances up through the holes in the shack, wolfsbane ready in his hand. He hates this. There’s no reason to go through it, without anyone waiting for him on the other side with a smile and an open heart. Father’s in Azkaban, again, and Draco is hiding away in his room. If he died in this shack, would anyone care? Would anyone come looking for him? Would anyone cry when they buried him in the ground? He doubts it.

His skin starts to prickle. Perhaps he should drop the potion, pretend it was an accident. Let his mind twist up in itself and maybe they’ll put him down, out of mercy.

No. He swallows the potion, grimacing at the sour taste. He’s not going to become like one of those hopeless messes, wishing for death every second of the day. He’s a fighter, always has been, and what he should be focused on doing is fixing this disease of his. If he doesn’t find a cure, at least he’ll know he tried, and by then he might have found something else to work on.

The bottle falls to the ground as the pain starts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

How could he have been so blind? The silence, the malnourishment, the bruises under his eyes. Harry reads over the letter again, mind frozen in shock. He hadn’t known. It wasn’t Harry’s fault, right? If Malfoy had fallen, it wouldn’t have been Harry’s fault. It couldn’t. Harry was busy saving the entire wizarding world.

Except… sixth year. In Myrtle’s bathroom, he’d almost killed him, right after seeing him break down. He could’ve cast a different spell, or not cast a spell at all. In hindsight, he knows Draco’s cruciatus wouldn’t have worked. Harry could have let it hit him, and tried to talk Malfoy out of it. Perhaps then the cabinet wouldn’t have been fixed, and Dumbledore wouldn’t be dead, and none of it would have happened.

But that was Malfoy’s problem. If Malfoy had done it differently, then things would have changed. Harry hadn’t known at the time, so it wasn’t his fault.

Except… in Malfoy Manor. When Malfoy had stood in front of him and risked his life to save Harry’s. Then Harry had left him. Perhaps if he’d taken Malfoy with them, he could have saved him then. After all, Malfoy was left wandless, and so couldn’t have summoned the Death Eaters to Luna’s home.

But then Malfoy had faced him in the Room of Requirement, and Harry had saved him then. Ron had saved Malfoy again from another Death Eater, so it wasn’t fair to say he hadn’t tried. It was just Malfoy being a git throughout all of their school years that meant he couldn’t understand. It wasn’t Harry’s fault.

Lupin had ducked into the common room briefly, only explaining that he thought Harry was ready to know. The letter he’d passed through is wrinkled and smudged with dirt, most likely from the battle. The edge is singed, bringing unpleasant memories of the heat and panic of the Fiendfyre. Crabbe had died in that fire. Harry remembers how angry Malfoy had been telling him about it, how he’d wished Harry had saved Crabbe instead because…

Now he knows. Because Malfoy was planning to die anyway.

Malfoy’s been in their room for a while, so he’s been crashing with Ron and Zabini. He can tell his presence there is a welcome relief, since Ron has stopped moaning about how obnoxious Zabini is every morning. Unfortunately, Zabini clearly doesn’t feel the same way, as his massive wardrobe has creeped slowly into the centre of the room, making it hard to move around in there. Even without that, Harry can see why Ron hates his roommate so much. Every morning, Zabini sets off three irritatingly loud alarms, and refuses to switch them off until both of them are up and out of the door. Parkinson’s always waiting outside, with fifty tonnes of makeup and clothes in her arms, and brushes past them into the room to start their daily makeover session. It would be cute if it wasn’t so bloody early.

Speaking of Parkinson and Zabini, the two of them have moved from giving him sly glares to giving Nott them instead. He’s asked Luna about it, who’d muttered something about too many wrackspurts. Ginny had then told him that Luna ‘isn’t a seer, y’know’ and that he should ‘go ask Trelawney if you’re so interested’. He hadn’t asked Trelawney.

Another day passes, and when he’s spacing out over another game of chess with Ron, Hermione eventually decides to intervene.

“Harry!”

He looks up sharply, meeting her concerned gaze. “What?”

“Are you thinking about Draco again?”

“Why is everyone calling him Draco now?” Harry groans, head sliding onto the chessboard, the pieces wailing as they fall to the floor. It feels like all the years of hate and distrust are falling away far too easily for everyone but him. First Luna, then Remus, then Hermione. What next? Ron?

“Because, as I keep telling you, people with mental difficulties need friendly support. So I’m his friend. Which is really strange to say, but it’s the truth now. As McGonagall said, the war is over, and we need to focus on building positive relationships.” She says firmly.

“And as I keep telling you, Malfoy was a dick from day one. He’s not going to suddenly change when he’s stopped being a weird silent ghost boy.” Ron mumbles, then falls out of his chair as Hermione sends a flying cushion his way.

“Ronald Weasley!” She tuts, letting Harry relax. That’s the only benefit to them fighting all the time; Harry doesn’t have to answer difficult questions. “Anyway, you haven’t answered my question!” She pokes him, and he groans in despair.

“I’m not! I’m thinking about Nott.”

“Merlin’s beard, Harry. Are you gonna crush on every Slytherin?” Ron collapses into another chair, throwing the cushion at the snake painting on the wall, which hisses at him and slithers away.

“No! I was thinking about the looks Parkinson and Zabini keep giving him.” He sits up, scowling at Ron, who looks relieved.

“Haven’t you heard?” Luna drifts over to her place by the fire, carrying one of Neville’s plants. “Theo and Draco broke up. I’ve been trying to get some sap from this plant to calm Theo, but he hasn’t been talking to me. Aryana says it’s because he was only friends with me for Draco’s sake.”

“Which is why Slytherins suck!” Ginny gripes, nose wrinkled as she follows Luna and falls onto the sofa. “I don’t get the Draco thing, but Nott is a huge asshole.”

Oh great. Now Ginny’s calling him that. Sure, she looked a little disgusted as she said it, but she said it nonetheless.

“Oh!” Luna jumps up again in realisation. “I forgot to talk to Red Hawk this morning. I need to go.” She drops the plant into Ginny’s lap, and dashes off, hair flowing behind her. Ginny stares at the plant, which waves at her feebly.

“Who’s Red Hawk?” Hermione questions, eyebrow raised skeptically.

“Not a clue.” Ginny shrugs.

Parkinson’s whine carries across the room as she sidles over to Blaise. The four of them watch her, and Harry can’t help noticing the frustrated twist on her mouth. She’s come from the dormitories, which means she was trying to talk to Malfoy again. This is the third time today.

“Will he ever come out?” Harry mutters, mostly to himself, although of course Hermione takes that as directly to her.

“I don’t know. Isolation is bad for him, he needs someone there to talk to. Perhaps I should go.” Hermione stands, but Ron quickly leaps over and pulls her back down again. 

“No offense, ‘Mione, but you’re not great at sorting out other people’s emotions. Besides, Harry’s the one who’s so bothered about him.” He grins at him. “And besides, he’s just broken up with Nott. No time like the present, am I right?”

“Ron!” Another pillow narrowly misses Ron’s head, this time from Ginny. “I can’t believe you! Don’t be such a dick.”

Harry rolls his eyes, standing. “Ok, I’ll see what I can do.” His hand goes into his pocket, fingers dancing over the singed letter inside. 

“Try not to spike his drink this time, yeah?” His traitorous red-haired friend snorts, as his sister turns to him with a confused and slightly dangerous expression.

Harry scarpers, heart thumping. Out of the frying pan, straight into the fire.


	17. Crucio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm dying... my cold is killing me...
> 
> Apologies for the late update, though. At least it's given me time to have a plan for the next few chapters, and a one-shot I want to do with both Draco and Gakushuu, my favourites, as the main characters. Tell me if you want to see it done, and I'll start it as soon as possible (along with everything else of course...).
> 
> Any ideas for upcoming chapters or one-shots, please leave in the comments section!
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

Draco buries his head into the dark, and tries to slip away into nothingness. It doesn’t work. It never does.

He feels the tendrils of numbness every now and again. They wrap around his heart and his mind, tugging gently, welcoming him back to the haze he’d been trapped in at the Manor. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing to slip away again. He’d had his second chance, and ruined it, like he always does. All that’s left is to fade away from the earth forever.

“Draco, darling. Are you in there?”

Pansy. He wishes she would leave him alone. It’s harder to focus on dying when she’s there, reminding him of all the pain he will cause.

“This is the last day you’re wallowing in self-pity. Tomorrow, I’m gonna drag your ass out of there so we can eat ice cream and plan revenge on Nott, ok?”

No, it’s not ok. He hurt Theo… No, he’s Theodore, now. Or Nott. Draco doesn’t love him, he knows that, or else he wouldn’t have made him bleed. But neither does he hate him. Perhaps if they hadn’t kissed each other, then they might have become each other’s support to get through difficult times. Friends are always far better than lovers. Besides, attraction isn’t the same as love. Just because Theodore has a nice face and muscles doesn’t mean Draco loves him, not at all. They should’ve stayed friends. If he hadn’t accepted Theodore’s kiss, maybe he wouldn’t be feeling like this.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Her heels click against the floor as she walks away, leaving him in the dark and the silence once more.

Time passes him by, without word or meaning. It could have been a day or only a few seconds before another knock comes at his door. Blaise? Or Pansy again?

“Hey, Malfoy? How are you… Are you feeling ok?” Potter. Of course the Saviour Upon High would come sniffing. In the eyes of the Gryffindors, time spent alone by Slytherins must mean they’re plotting Armageddon, right?

“I’m sorry about what happened. Pomfrey says you weren’t hurt too bad, but they shouldn’t have done that. Especially with what happened with No- Oh. Sorry.”

Merlin’s beard. Now even Potter knows about him and Theodore.

“Anyway, the point is… I’m sorry about everything that’s happened. I’m sorry I was mean to you, even though you did deserve it back then, and I’m sorry you had to live with Voldemort, and-”

The ringing begins in his ears then. It stabs through his head, right to the centre of his brain, drilling into his thoughts until he clamps his hands over his ears to try and shut it all out. But it’s too late. The name bounces around his brain, in whispers and in shouts and in screams, in the hiss of the man himself and in the choked begging of his own voice.

(Draco. Calm down. It’s just a name.)  
I- no, I can’t- It’s too loud! Stop it!  
(It’s all in your head. You can stop it yourself.)  
Easy for you to say! You were always- always better at controlling everything. It all went your way!  
(Now is not the time, Draco.) A sigh, exasperated but calm. (Come. If you can’t create the wall, you can at least think of my cloak.)  
I’m too old. You said and father said and-  
(I think I can make an exception this once.)

He remembers the silken feel of the black fabric, cold and warm all at once, his seven-year-old back pressing into a bony leg. The cloak, his vampire cloak, shuts out all the screaming and whispers. He’s safe in the cloak. Sev’s hand, long fingers just like his one day, ruffles his hair. And then, as he peeks up to catch a glimpse of his face, the whole scene fades away, and he’s left alone, listening to Potter’s voice outside.

“I promise it won’t happen again, Malfoy. I know… I know what you did after the battle. Remus - I mean, Remus Lupin -gave me the letter last night. Will you please let me in?”

And reality kicks in. Severus is dead. The cloak is burnt away, his safe haven nothing but a distant memory. The boy, the man, standing outside the door is the one who caused all this. Without Potter, Vo- the Dark- the creature of a man wouldn’t have done any of this. Severus would still be alive, if it wasn’t for Potter’s stupidity. Every time anything ever went wrong, Potter was at the heart of it.

He opens the door, fire filling his lungs, breathing life into his corpse. He can’t let him get away with this. Potter doesn’t deserve to live happily ever after, not after everything he’s done. Especially not with that letter, and especially not after the attack earlier in the year.

He’s going to make Potter pay.

“I had no idea you-”

‘Everte Statum’ Draco flicks his wand, and Potter crashes backwards into the door, slamming it closed. The room is pitch black now, but Draco adjusted to it a long time ago. The non-verbal spellwork had taken effort and time, but this was so worth it.

“Malfoy! What the hell?!” Potter splutters, struggling to his feet. Draco doesn’t give him time to recover.

‘Levicorpus’

“Liberacorpus!” Potter yells, landing hard on the floor yet stumbling to his feet again quickly, wand in hand.

Spell after spell is cast, hexes and jinxes and counter curses flying everywhere. Draco can feel the bruises and burns accumulating, slowing him down, but he refuses to stop. He can’t let Potter get away with all the pain he’s caused. He has to make Potter pay. But he’s running out of things to throw at him, and this feels far too much like sixth year for his comfort. The only thing that has changed is that he’s not a pathetic child anymore. He’s been through a war, and the curse he tried back then for the first time has been cast many times since. He can do it now. Then Potter will suffer.

‘Crucio’. The force of his thoughts explode into black ink letters over his head, spitting sparks that light up the room in bright flashes, illuminating the word for all to see.

Potter winces. That’s it.

Draco doesn't understand. He hates Potter, hates him with every fibre of his being. He wants to see Potter punished, which is exactly what this spell does, so how does it fail him now? How can it work on innocent muggles, yet refuse to make the man who destroyed his world do more than wince?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry stares at the word, Crucio, as it fizzles out above Malfoy’s head, dropping them into the darkness once more. He lifts his wand once more, muttering a Lumos, and gazes around at the calm after the storm. The room is a mess, pillows burst open and scattered on the floor. Corner really won’t be happy about this.

Perhaps he’d misunderstood it all. Malfoy is a Malfoy, after all. As Ron said, Malfoy was a dick from day one. He isn’t going to change, even if he is little more than a ghost.

A soft thump startles him from his thoughts. He directs his wand light at Malfoy, who’s sat down heavily, watching the wand in his lap with disbelief. Black wisps of smoke are trailing around his head, forming into words and sentences which scatter as soon as they form. Harry holds his breath, unwilling to disturb the opportunity to read his thoughts.

‘But I hate him’  
‘It didn’t work’  
‘I don’t understand’  
‘It can’t mean that I-’  
‘It’s this stupid Garbage Wand’  
‘My father could do it’  
‘You’re not your father’  
‘You’re useless’  
‘Can’t even cast a crucio’

The smoke is thickening, darkening, the edges sharpening into spikes. Is this really what Malfoy is thinking? He wants to deny it, but the smoke is reaching down, wrapping around Malfoy’s hands, which have a tight grip on both ends of his wand. As though he’s going to snap it.

Harry crouches in front of him, taking his hands gently. Malfoy flinches, taking in a huge gulp of air, right as the smoke vanishes without warning. Grey eyes flick up to meet green, guilt flashing across them as sharp as a dragon’s tooth. Malfoy looks so vulnerable, so ashamed of what he’s done, pinched face twisting with disgust at himself. Harry recognises that look - he saw it in the mirror every day as a child. But he doesn’t feel pity; he feels a rush of hope and excitement, because Malfoy is about to apologise.

Their breaths fill the space, stretching like a rubber band about to snap. Harry’s eyes rove over the other boy’s face, heart quickening as the next few moments whizz through his mind prematurely. Malfoy will apologise. Then Harry will say it’s fine, will apologise too, and in that moment everything will be fixed. Or Malfoy will apologise and then Harry will kiss him, and Malfoy will suddenly realise he still loves Harry and he will kiss him back. Or Malfoy will apologise, and confess everything, and Harry will remember some magic to fix Malfoy’s head, and Malfoy will be so grateful that he’ll propose.

None of these things happen.

Malfoy starts crying.

Harry stares, feeling the tension dissolve into the air. There are tears streaming down Malfoy’s hollowed cheeks, actual tears, reddening the outline of his eyes and dripping steadily onto the floor. One thin hand comes up, covering his gasping mouth to stifle the sobs wracking his body. For a moment, the two of them simply sit there, Malfoy desperately trying to stop himself, Harry gaping back.

Of course Malfoy wasn’t going to apologise and fall in love again with Harry. His crucio didn’t work, and Harry’s veritaserum did. Harry was just doing too much wishful thinking. Although… Malfoy’s crying in front of him, right now, so maybe Malfoy isn’t the one who’s supposed to apologise.

Gently, Harry places his wand on the floor, letting the light dim, and wraps Malfoy into a hug. For a moment, he’s worried he’s done the wrong thing. Malfoy tenses, body shaking, but then he relaxes and dumps his head into Harry’s shoulder. His tears leak through Harry’s jumper, but he doesn’t mind at all. A snotty jumper is a small price to pay to make the person you love feel even a little bit better.

They sit there for a while. Harry doesn’t know how long, yet the feel of Malfoy curled up in his arms makes the time irrelevant. Neither move, except for Malfoy’s weakening sobs. It’s… nice.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Broomstick polish. Wet grass. The smells Draco hated, then fell in love with, then hated, and now… is falling in love with again. He should hate it, but it’s… nice.


	18. S.P.E.W.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, that's been far too long of a break. Still! New chapter, new mysteries (kinda), and new relationships blossoming! I always hated that S.P.E.W. was never mentioned in the films, so I'm bringing it in here, because why not.
> 
> As always, any new ideas or suggestions for future chapters are much appreciated! (I'm publishing as soon as I finish writing every chapter, and I have little planning, so anything you want to see in here probably will appear if you comment it.)
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

Nice. Not perfect, not in the slightest, but not the worst thing ever. A middle ground. Balancing on a knife blade, not sure whether your next movement will tip you over the side.

Harry hates the feeling. He wants the casual joke, like with Ron, where nothing will ever annoy, not anymore, because they can laugh it off far too easily. He wants the gentle smile, like with Hermione, where they can talk about anything and everything, and the other will know exactly what to say. He even wants the awkward shrug, like with Ginny, where they know every shade of hate and love, so fall into the on-off structure. At least then he would know that no matter what he does, at some point he will be accepted again.

But Malfoy is not like Ron, or Hermione, or Ginny. Malfoy can’t joke without a voice, can’t smile after years of scowls, and can’t shrug when he doesn’t leave his own bed. Harry is left fumbling, trying to edge around difficult topics that he hadn’t realised were sensitive.

“The owl dropped this outside. I think it’s from your mum.” He lights a couple of candles, bringing a dim light to the room that Malfoy won’t complain about. The blonde squints at him from under the blankets, mouth downturned.

“How is she doing, by the way? Are you going home for Christmas?”

Then Malfoy scowls at him, ignoring the box, and turns over to put his back to Harry. Conversation over.

It’s frustrating. He hides the visits, saying he’s going to study in the library, and ends up having to do exactly that when Malfoy turns his back. Time and time again, he avoids Parkinson’s suspicious glares, Ron's hurt eyes, and Nott’s bitter resentment. All for him to say some small thing and be met with petulant anger.

November trickles into December, and soon the professors start giving pointed looks to Malfoy’s empty seats. Eighth years are given leeway, yes, but a full week of missed lessons by a Death Eater - no, Ex-Death Eater - can’t be ignored. However, it isn’t until the end of a charms class on a wednesday that one of them speaks up.

“Parkinson, Potter, Corner. Stay behind please.”

Harry sighs, dropping back into his seat. Ron and Hermione offer him sympathetic looks (well, Hermione’s is more of a ‘what have you done now’), and walk out together. Parkinson groans in exasperation, flicking her hair over her shoulder and lounging back in her chair. He’s surprised she doesn’t glare at him, seeing as that has been every interaction they’ve had recently, but he supposes she’s thinking about Zabini again. Oh, great! Now Luna’s got him thinking about who likes whom.

Professor Flitwick peers down at them from his stack of books, tucking his wand into a pocket. “Now, then. I trust you three won’t start spreading rumours around the school, so I’m going to ask you directly: where is Mr Malfoy?”

Harry winces, searching through his mind for a suitable explanation. He should have thought of this beforehand, but the constant worry of Parkinson’s future intentions had distracted him.

“Ask Potter, professor. He’s the one who’s been sneaking in there every day without telling anyone.” Parkinson sneers, fingernails tapping against the desk.

Corner raises an eyebrow as Flitwick turns to Harry. “Well?”

He stammers, stomach clenching as he desperately thinks of a way to not tell them. His visits are special, a secret that he treasures between him and the silent boy. No one can ruin that, especially not Parkinson and her upturned nose. But… then again, Parkinson is Malfoy’s friend. Actual friend, not minion or blind follower like Crabbe or Goyle had been. She’s proved it through months of defending Mafloy’s name, subtle hexes, outright brawls, and letting Malfoy come out in his own time, despite her obvious frustration.

To have Malfoy as his friend too, he needs to, unfortunately, make friends with his friends. It’s no good being together if you hate everyone your partner loves.

“Malfoy’s been staying in his room, professor. I don’t think he’s feeling that well and, uhm, you have to have seen what’s been happening. He can’t step outside without being hexed!” Harry bites his lip, praying Flitwick will let this go.

“I understand, but the board of governors and the ministry won’t.” Flitwick frowns, sitting on his stack. “I’ll talk to McGonagall about it. For now, I’d like one of you to bring Mr Malfoy this work.” He pulls out his wand again, flicking it and levitating a stack of paper over to Harry. “I’m sure Miss Granger will be able to explain it.”

That was that. Every lesson, the professor would slip Harry some work, and he’d pass it on to Hermione, who stood outside Malfoy’s door for at least 20 minutes every day before being allowed in. Surprisingly, she wasn’t irritated at him for lying to her; in fact, she seemed incredibly pleased that he was helping Malfoy. Unsurprisingly, Ron didn’t share her views.

Malfoy started getting up. The 20 minutes Hermione stands outside is to let him get changed before she comes in. After she leaves, he’ll go straight back to bed, but it’s an improvement. Harry can’t help feeling a little miffed that Malfoy makes the effort for Hermione and not him, but on the bright side it shows he’s relatively comfortable around Harry. 

It’s worth it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione taps her foot, listening to the shuffling inside the room. She should start bringing a book to read here, honestly. Twenty minutes is far too much time wasted.

“Hey, Granger.”

She turns her head, raising an eyebrow at the girl glaring at her. “Yes, Pansy?”

“What do you do in there, really?” Parkinson stalks closer, arms folded. “I know you’re not actually teaching him, because he’s under Imperius. Do you make him do your nails? Do your potions homework? Or something a little more…” Her gaze trails down to between Hermione’s legs, and she can’t help flushing and stepping back.

“What?! No!”

“So what, then?”

Parkinson must have snapped. She’s got that feral look in her eye, the one Ron had when they destroyed the locket, and Hermione’s hands are too full with schoolwork to grab her wand. What is she supposed to do? Talk Parkinson down? If not that, she could at least distract her enough until Draco is done, then he can step in and stop her. Parkinson always listens to Draco, right?

“Granger? Don’t you dare ignore me!”

“Parkinson, Draco isn’t under Imperius…” Hermione says gently, biting her lip in worry. She can feel her forehead creasing again, like it always does these days. She’s going to get early wrinkles.

Parkinson snorts. “Yeah, right. I know what Potter’s been doing. I know he wants Draco all to himself, cause he’s a spoiled brat! Don’t try to argue with me, Granger, I’ve figured it all out. He’s in love with Draco, so like the possessive prick he is, he’s separated him slowly from his friends so we won’t get suspicious, then locked him away and cast Imperius. Why else would Draco invite him in and not me?!”

Oh. She’s jealous.

“Pansy…” Hermione sighs, wishing she had hands to reassure the girl with. “It isn’t anything like that. Draco’s just… He doesn’t want you to worry about him.”

They’d talked about it a few days ago. Hermione had just started to settle into their sessions, talking to him a little more, and her curiosity had got the better of her.

“Why don’t you talk to Parkinson or Zabini any more?”

He’d glanced up, stormy eyes set in dark sockets, looking more and more like a skeleton every day. He rarely answers her questions, instead nodding or shaking his head. She supposes the spell must be tiring; it’s not one she’s read about before, and new spells always take years to condense down into an easier version. So he simply stared, a blank expression on his face.

“Is it… are they being cruel to you?” She asked gently, well aware that pureblood society is not kind. Just like in the muggle world, the higher classes expect those being bullied to keep a stiff upper lip, and hold their tongue.

He shook his head, snorting at the very idea. She’d breathed a sigh of relief at that. Volunteering to teach Draco, of all people, was weird enough. Defending him from his own friends would be bizarre.

“So what is wrong?”

He rolls his eyes defeatedly, and flicks his wand in the air in brief irritated swipes. ‘I don’t want them to see me like this. They’ll get worried, and distracted, and won’t see the next hex or jinx thrown their way.’

Her face crumples again. He was that worried about the pranks that he was refusing to even see them? Isolating himself because they would get hurt? If this proved anything, it was that Draco had changed, for the better.

He caught her soft look, unfortunately, and shook his hand, gesturing at the paper as though to say ‘Stop moping, Granger, we’ve work to do’.

Now, days later, Hermione wishes she’d talked to Parkinson about it at the time. The girl’s face is rapidly turning sour, a disbelieving curl to her lip. “Worry about him? Is that the best excuse you could come up with? Granger, darling, I’m more worried when I’m not seeing him. So if you’re done trying to make me go away, I suggest you let me in and take the curse off of him, before I cast a really nasty hex on you.”  
Hermione shivers, opening her mouth to answer, but is interrupted by the door swinging open by itself. Parkinson pushes past her, storming into the room, and pulls up as she sees Draco. Sighing in resignation, Hermione follows, flicking a quick incendio at the candles littered around.

“Draco.”

‘Pansy.’

“What the hell?! Potter? Granger? Why not me?!”

‘Sorry.’

“Sorry?!”

Hermione winces, and rapidly backs out again as Parkinson’s shrill squeal threatens to make her ears bleed. She’ll give it a good ten minutes, perhaps twenty.

Sure enough, entering fifteen minutes later with three cups of tea, she finds the two of them slogging through the mountain of work. She joins them, passing out the tea and settling down on a cushioning charm. Parkisnon mutters a reluctant thanks, and they sit quietly. Time ticks by. Eventually, Parkinson sighs, and holds out her hand to Hermione.

“I apologise. Truce?”

Hermione regards it wearily, mind tearing out all the ways this could go wrong, yelling at her to leave and never speak to any of these fascist bullies ever again. Instead, she takes the hand and shakes it. “Truce.”

From then on, Parkinson - or Pansy, now - joins their study sessions. Harry, obviously, would rather fail at chess with Ron. Or Zabini. Ever since Pansy has been friendly to Hermione, Zabini has been offering Ron a fair chance at beating someone of his own skill. Unsurprisingly, it’s taken Ron a while to accept. Pansy has thankfully kept quiet about Harry’s crush on Draco, so it’s always with trepidation when Hermione hears Pansy deviate from their work.

“I heard that the Hogwarts house elves are increasing in number. All the purebloods having to let them go, y’know?” Pansy interrupts the quiet one afternoon, picking at the edge of her skirt.

Draco nods, setting his potions essay down and rubbing his eyes. He holds his hand out, and Hermione watches a glass of water fly into it with pleased eyes. His non-verbal magic has been getting better, especially now he’s stopped using the useless wand. She could see from the second that he picked it up it was all the wrong shape and size for him.

“Granger. What happened to that little club you had? Vomit.”

“S.P.E.W. actually.” Hermione huffs, feeling the familiar anger rise up in her. She still can’t understand why everyone was so against it. Even her own friends! Especially Ron! “And before you say anything, I’ve stopped it. I know ‘the house elves don’t want to be free’, ‘they’re happy as they are’, et cetera, et cetera.”

Pansy raises her eyebrows. “Uhm, that’s not what I was going to say. I actually think it’s quite good.”

Hermione’s head jerks up, mouth gaping in shock. “What?”

Draco tilts his head. ‘No, it’s not. You’re going about it the wrong way.’

Both girls turn to glare at him, and he holds his hands up defensively. ‘Didn’t say it was wrong for them to want to be free. They’re just scared.’

“Of what?” Hermione frowns.

‘Freedom. Pans, remember the House Elves Enslavement Act of 1244?’

“Yeah. Oh! Yeah, in there, it said that every house elf who becomes a slave must be kept fairly, with bedding and nourishment. Before that, house elves were sort of like strays. Any house elf brought in could easily be replaced, so every one was in fear of being kicked out and left to starve again. That’s why they made the HEEA.” Pansy nods, then scowls. “I hate knowing all that. Makes me sound like a weird bookworm.”

Since when was this a thing? Hermione has never read anything about it, even though she spent hours pouring over old texts about house elves.

‘You won’t have known about it. It’s just something purebloods learn about as a kid, since they have so many house elves running around them.’ Draco drops his arm, exhausted from all the writing.

Pansy takes the lead instead. “I think I understand what he’s trying to say. It’s not that house elves are happy being slaves, it’s that they know freedom isn’t fun for them. They could be reduced to what they were before. The one that left the Malfoys was lucky, since he knew Potter. Dumbledore would obviously take in anything Precious Potter liked.” She snorts, a bitter tone coming through.

Hermione’s heart twists at the thought of Dobby, now reduced to a little cross on a hilltop. She might fundraise sometime in the future, get a statue to commemorate all that he had done. Still, that was in the future, but now...  
“So, you’re saying they would want to be free if they knew they’d be in a job?”

His blonde curls bob up and down as he nods triumphantly, a small smile gracing his lips. Pansy shoves aside the pile of paper and claps her hands together, a determined expression on her face. “Forget all of this stuff. Granger, Draco, we have more important work to do!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S.P.E.W. club!
> 
> Question:  
Should this be only these three doing all the work together, or should they set up a group of them to work together on this? And if you think the second, who should be in it?


	19. Breaking Boundaries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so mad. I was supposed to be doing my GCSEs this year, but I guess not! I hope everyone is staying safe, washing their hands and surviving isolation. I myself am fine, as I'm a huge introvert who adores hiding in my room with many books, so I wish everyone else the best. Maybe I'll update more often, now that I have too much time on my hands, and you can fend off boredom with this!
> 
> As always, any ideas for future chapters or other fanfics, I'd love for you to put them in the comments section.
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

“Granger, this sounds like more of an attack than persuasion. Purebloods do still have pride, you know.” Pansy sighs, tossing aside the latest speech Hermione has written up.

They’re sitting in Draco’s room again, posters and books strewn all over the floor. Pansy has assigned herself leader of the campaign on the pureblood side, placing Draco on poster creation and Hermione on research and debate. The house elves that usually bring Draco food took one look at the mess and never returned, so now it’s up to Luna to keep him fed. This has the unfortunate consequence of him being forced to actually eat all the food, as Luna won’t leave for classes unless he does, but he enjoys her company for the time she is there.

“Draco! Careful with that paintbrush, darling!” Pansy squeals, jumping away from the accidental flick of paint flying her way.

‘Wouldn’t want Blaise to see you all dirty, would we?’ Draco spells out, smirking as Pansy’s face flushes.

“That’s none of your business!”

“You two!” Hermione sighs in exasperation. “You’d think we’re a gaggle of first years. Draco, put down the paintbrush and cast a drying spell. Pansy, tell me how on earth I’m supposed to fix this.”

He rolls his eyes, dropping the paintbrush in the pot and slowly maneuvering his wand over the picture of a sad house elf. For a moment, he thinks he sees the creature blink at him, but that can’t be real. He can barely dry the painting with his magic, how could he make it come to life?

Hesitantly, he pokes it with his wand. Was that a twitch? Or just his imagination? It’s hard to tell with the light, so he squints closer, and then a brighter light floods across the page and he turns to thank whoever it is and stares up at Luna and Theodore in the doorway.

“Uhm…” Luna glances around. “Sorry.”

Pansy jumps to her feet, pointing her wand at Theodore. “Out, this is private!”

He steps back, face closing off quickly. “This was a bad idea. I’m leaving.” Turning around, he begins to flee, but Luna grabs his elbow and pulls him back.

“No, you’re not. Draco, can we please talk together? I think you’ll want to hear this.” She says gently.

Pansy scowls. “No! We’re in the middle of something, so Nott can shove his apology up his-”

“Pansy!” Hermione slaps a hand over Pansy’s mouth. “Sorry, Luna. Draco can make his own decisions.”

They all turn to look at him, a riot of emotions across their faces. Draco feels his heart clench with anxiety, hands clamming up at a remarkable rate. Allow them in, and disappoint Pansy. Reject them, and disappoint Luna. Allow them in, and have to face his fears about Theodore. Reject them, and never be able to sort out the fear, living his life wondering what could have been.

“Draco?” Luna’s honest blue eyes gaze at him, and he knows she would never lie. If she thinks Draco would want to hear this, he should, right? He trusts her, even if he doesn’t trust Theodore anymore. Slowly, he nods his head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry groans as Blaise’s knight cuts off his king’s head. “Again? How? I thought I was getting better!”

“Better?” Blaise smirks, brushing away a speck of dust on his shoulder. “I hadn’t noticed. Maybe we should try another round, and you can show me again how dismally poor you are at this.”

“Please don’t, Harry. I think I might actually cry if you do whatever that was supposed to be again!” Ron mumbles, face firmly buried in his hands.

“Fine, fine. You win, Blaise.” Harry throws the other boy a galleon, the third one this week, which is tucked neatly into a hidden pocket of his robes. “Anyone want a butterbeer?”

“Nott looks like he needs one.” Ron hints not-so-subtly, eyes flicking to watch Blaise.

Blaise tenses, nose sticking in the air defensively. “Nonsense. That brat should be left to fend for himself.”

“Why?” Harry pauses, halfway out of his chair. “What has he done wrong?”

“None of your business, Potter.” Blaise spits, already back to that pretentious pureblood sneer. “If you want to find out, go ask him yourself.” With a dramatic flick of his cloak, he glides away.

Ron huffs, kicking his legs up onto the coffee table. “Git. If someone removed the stick up his arse, I might actually like him.”

“You know, I might do that.” Harry ponders, watching Nott. The boy glances up for a moment from his book, spots Harry, and immediately snaps the book shut, grabbing the plant he’d been feeding and standing.

“What? Remove the stick up Zabini’s arse?”

“No, you idiot!” He whacks him with a pillow. “Go talk to Nott. Wish me luck.”

“Wait, Harry, don’t-!”

He strides across the room, ignoring the growing whispers, and stops in front of Nott. “Hey.”

Nott’s eyes slide over him rapidly, angrily, jaw clenched. “Potter.”

Shit. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. “Uhm, so, I saw you sitting here, and you didn’t look all that happy, so-”

“I don’t need your pity, Potter. I’m fine, and I’m smart enough to know that you don’t care about me at all. What are you actually here for?”

He shifts uncomfortably, hand adjusting his glasses. “Well, I was wondering why you and Malfoy- I mean, uhm, Draco - aren’t talking anymore? You were really close, and then…”

“We just don’t fit, that’s all.” Nott folds his arms. “He has some deluded idea that he’s responsible for everything that happened in the war, and I don’t agree, so we broke up. That’s it. Go and tell the whole world if you want, Potter. But you won’t.” He leans closer, voice lowering to a whisper, eyes alive with a sort of self-destructive malice. “Because I know you like him, and wouldn’t it be funny telling everyone their Saviour’s in love with a Death Eater? A boy Death Eater, at that. I’m sure the whole world would be so... accepting!”

Harry steps back, feeling as though he’d just been slapped. He hadn’t thought about that. Yes, he knew Draco had been attacked verbally and physically for it, but… Harry had thought if he was with Draco, he could protect him from it. He’d never considered that it might cause him harm too.

“So stay out of my business, Potter.” Nott spits, voice trembling ever so slightly. “Stay out of my business, and I’ll stay out of yours. Permanently.” Tucking the shivering plant under his arm, Nott shoves Harry’s shoulder as he storms out.

Dazed, Harry returns to Ron.

“Went well?” His friend says cheerily. “Managed to convince him to spill all his secrets with that famous charm of yours? Saved everyone’s souls while you’re at it?”

“Shut up, you idiot.” Harry huffs, dropping into a seat. “How am I supposed to stop someone from thinking they’ve caused the death of hundreds of people?”

“I don’t know. I left that to Hermione.” Ron mumbles, suddenly serious, and Harry winces. His guilt had never truly vanished. Most days after the battle, he’d stared at the ceiling every night, wondering how many people he could have saved if he’d just done something a little differently. Luckily, he’d had so many wonderful friends to help him through it, and now he manages to stop the spiralling thoughts.

He’d been lucky. Draco hadn’t. It seems that now, more than ever, their positions had reversed since the first year of Hogwarts.

“Listen up!” Pansy’s voice cuts through the low bubbling of conversation. “There’s a party in here tomorrow, ‘kay? Bring firewhisky and anyone else who isn’t here right now. Except for Theodore, Justin and sixth year or under, obviously. Oh, and you either gotta pay to get in or donate time for making flyers and posters, cause we’re raising money for a charity. Got it? Good.” She flicks her hair and saunters out, leaving Hermione with a sign up sheet.

Ron whistles in admiration. “Damn. Parkinson must be really into this new cause Hermione’s made up. In sixth year, the parties she put on were so exclusive, that you had to have a spell put on you to make sure you didn’t tell anyone about it.” He flushes at Harry’s questioning look. “What? Lavender knew people, ok?”

Harry sighs, standing again to join the quickly gathering crowd around Hermione. It doesn’t take her long to order everyone into a line and have their names down, so Harry reaches the front relatively quickly.

“Me, and Ginny. I’ll pay for us both.” He watches her scribble it down. “So what is this new charity, anyway?”

“S.P.E.W.” She fixes a glare at him. “Don’t you dare sigh or roll your eyes. Pansy and Draco have been telling me things, things you won’t understand, and now I know it’s going to work. Trust me.”

Pansy and Draco have been helping? Two purebloods who have house elves to pamper them every day? Harry can’t help feeling a little suspicious, but he doesn’t want to crush the hopeful look in Hermione’s eyes, so he nods. “Alright. I trust you. Good luck.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s hours later, when everyone else is sleeping, that Harry firecalls Remus again.

“Harry! I’ve been meaning to talk to you. The ministry workers have told me they’ve figured out the curse that sends people into Limbo, they just need to rework it to take people back. I don’t know how long it will be, but it's something, at least.” Remus’s face glows with happiness, a splodge of white paint across his cheek from earlier work on the house.

“That’s great!” Harry grins back, trying not to think of all the possible disastrous outcomes. He’d accepted Sirius’s death a long time ago. He doesn’t think he could manage if he had to learn to do it all over again. “How are the renovations going?”

“Decent. I’ve moved onto the kitchens, which Kreacher isn’t happy about, but microwaved meals are all the rage. I’ve learnt not to put forks and spoons in there.”

For a moment, Harry wonders why Remus doesn’t just use magic. Then he remembers how horrible magically heated food is, and appreciates having house elves around to do the cooking, since Hogwarts functions without electricity.

“Anyway, Harry, what’s wrong? You only firecall this late if there’s a problem.”

“Well, it’s more of a question.” He settles down closer to the fire, knees curled up to his chest. “Are there any spells that fix people’s heads? Like how obliviate makes people forget things, but I don’t want him to forget it, I just want him to see it differently.”

Remus frowns. “That doesn’t sound like a good idea, Harry. What are you planning to do with this spell?”

“Nothing!” He winces. If Remus knew he wanted to fix Draco’s self-loathing with magic, he would probably assign Harry to a ward in Saint Mungos. “It’s a research project. Since we have so much time now, without trying to kill Voldemort.”

“Right.” Remus narrows his eyes. “Well, I would suggest looking in the library, if you’re allowed in the Forbidden Section. There’s a few books on mind magic, and I’ll owl you any books I find in this place. Please, Harry, don’t actually test out the spells. You don’t know what damage it could do.”

“I won’t!” Harry promises, fingers crossed together behind his back. “Thanks, Remus. You’re really helpful. I’ll send over some chocolate from Honeydukes next time I visit.”

Time to repeat his breakin from first year. Hopefully, this time there’ll be less screaming books.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\


	20. Talentless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a short chapter, this time, but I think the next one will be longer. I have the final plan in my mind, so there may only be about five(?) chapters left. Don't worry, though! There will probably be more, knowing me, and there's always going to be my shorter fanfics being uploaded.
> 
> If anyone has any requests for things to happen in future chapters, please tell me!
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

Draco slowly drains the last dregs of tea from his cup, eyes on Theodore.

“...so, I’m really sorry for saying all of that. I understand it upset you, and I perhaps went a little further than necessary. Forgive me.” The man drops his head, stiff and uncomfortable. Luna smiles at Draco. Draco sighs.

Yes, Theodore has apologised, and Draco can’t hate him, not really. Yes, a part of him still loves those broad shoulders and that caring personality. Perhaps some of his heart is still yearning to be wrapped up in those arms and just forget about everything, if only for a moment. But…

‘Do you still think you were right to do those things in the war?’

He has to know. He can’t survive in a relationship where his partner doesn’t care about the past. It eats him up everyday, the guilt gnawing at his stomach, so he can’t stand by someone who doesn’t care about any of it. He needs someone with the moral compass to make sure he sticks to doing things right, without any exceptions, like ‘it was to save your own family’.

Theodore nibbles at his lip. He nods, face resigned, knowing the consequences.

‘No. I can’t.’ Draco places down the cup, a painful twisting in his gut. ‘I don’t hate you. But I can’t love you, not like this. Goodbye, Theo. Good luck.’

Theodore sighs, nodding again. “Alright, I get it. I’m sorry. It was really nice knowing you… Good luck for whatever you’re gonna do, too.” With that, he walks out, leaving Luna and Draco alone.

“What are you going to do?” Luna hums, settling on the floor and turning to him as though she hadn’t just witnessed his first ever breakup.

‘I don’t know. Work in the Ministry, I guess.’

“Really?” She frowns. “I thought you’d want to work with potions.”

Draco pulls his knees to his chest, letting them fall into contemplative silence. The Ministry ambition had mostly been his father’s hopes, and now that he thinks about it, it’s hard to see how he would have any chance of being accepted there. Hogwarts is bad enough. Working with potions would be nice, but he couldn’t find work in Saint Mungos. Who would put their life in the hands of an ex-Death Eater? 

Perhaps he could own a little potions shop, with strange mixtures in jars like Snape had… Then again, he’d need customers. Customers who’d buy from an ex-Death Eater. Customer’s who’d buy legally from an ex-Death Eater. Unless he wanted to go into selling illegal potions, he’d go bankrupt in less than a month.

Draco takes Luna’s tea absentmindedly, draining it in one long depressed sip. He’d always assumed he’d die before he grew up. Now he thinks about it, the future is just as unsteady as the war had been.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry stares at his feet, fully visible, sticking out underneath the invisibility cloak. Ah. He’s grown a bit since his earlier school years, clearly.

Rolling his eyes at how stupid this is, he crouches until his feet are covered, and waddles across the room. Merlin, why is he cursed like this? As if the war wasn’t bad enough, he now has to waddle across the castle to help an ex-Death Eater who doesn’t even like him.

The castle is quiet, except for a few adventuring first years he comes across sneaking into Filch’s office. He almost knocks over a stack of books in the entrance to the library, thanks to his poor eyesight, but eventually makes it into the forbidden section unscathed.

Mind magic, mind magic… Aha! Harry pulls out a thick book, suppressing his coughs at the flurry of dust, and tucks it under his cloak. It’s not like the book will be missed.

Back to the common room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Theodore hesitates in the doorway, watching McGonagall as she writes. The gargoyles had let him in without a password, which he takes as a good sign, but his request isn’t easy. Draco had said goodbye. Draco must have known, somehow. He sighs, backing off, suddenly uncertain. Maybe this was a bad idea, maybe Draco’s farewell hadn’t meant that he should do this.

“Come in, Mr Nott. The gargoyles can’t hold the entrance open forever.”

Well. Seems that decision has been made for him.

He walks forward, taking the chair opposite McGonagall and clasping his hands in his lap. She carries on writing, quill flicking in the air, but nods to him as though to give him permission to speak.

“Headmistress…” He starts, then pauses, his prepared speech flying out of the window. “Uhm… I would give you a long, well-thought-out speech, but I’m not too good at those, so…” Not too good at remembering them, either. “I’ll just ask you straight up.” Ouch, ok, neither is he good at improvising. Might as well come out with it before he messes up again. “Would you let me drop from lessons and train to be the next groundskeeper with Hagrid?”

McGonagall lowers her quill, peering at him over her spectacles. “I see. Mr Nott, I hope you understand that the Ministry has put very strict rules over your-”

“Yes, I know.” No, bad move. Don’t interrupt. “I’m sorry, headmistress, but I’ve thought about this a lot. They only want me here so they can keep an eye on me.”

“On the contrary, the program you are part of is to prevent ideas of blood purity lasting into your adulthood.”

He shakes his head in frustration. “You know that’s just a trick, headmistress, they don’t give a fuck about us!”

“Mr Nott!” McGonagall scowls.

“Sorry, headmistress.” Theodore huffs, reigning his anger back in and trapping it under a stony mask. “But what I’m trying to say is that they wouldn’t really care if I wasn’t going to lessons. They’d actually be happier if I was with Hagrid every hour of the day, because it’s far easier to keep track of me with him. Plus, I’d be staying in Hogwarts for the rest of my wizarding career, and so would have no ability to go out and do Death Eater things. Please, headmistress. At least talk to them.”

The old woman’s gaze softens as she leans back in her chair, regarding him. “You say you’ve thought about this a lot?”

“Yes.” He had a lot of time to think when his friends were busy ignoring him and Draco was hiding in his room. It seems like only Neville will talk to him any more. “This isn’t on a whim. I know what I’m doing. I’m not as talented as the rest of them, headmistress, no one will have any reason to accept me despite my mark. Hogwarts might be the only place left for me to live a good life.”

“Very well, Nott.” She smiles, face lined with a type of sad happiness. “I shall speak to the department. In the meantime, you should speak to your teachers, and Hagrid. I’m sure we can arrange for your own rooms in the castle, so you won’t have to traipse to the top floor and back down again every day.”

“Thank you.” Theodore stands, shaky with disbelief. It worked. Despite his anger messing everything up again, despite his terrible speech making, it actually worked. He allows a small triumphant smile to slip onto his face as he reaches the door.

“Mr Nott?”

Oh no. Please don’t say you’ve changed your mind. He turns, fingers wrapping into a fist, nails digging into the soft skin of his palms.

She picks up her quill, and begins writing again. “I don’t think you are talentless. It takes a unique person to lose a war and still have faith in their decisions. Hogwarts will be honoured to have you looking after it.”


	21. Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, that's a very lazy title for this chapter but I can't think of a better one. I think quarantine is turning my brain to mush. I hope you're all staying inside and staying safe. 
> 
> I'm spending far too much time flicking through instagram instead of writing or talking to people, so to get myself motivated, I'd like to know more about you! I love knowing what people are thinking about my work, but most importantly, I love seeing what you're like. Therefore, I'm going to start asking a short question at the bottom of every chapter or work I publish, and see what you say.
> 
> As ever, any questions or ideas you have about future chapters or fanfics, please tell me!
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

“It’s actually a really boring talk about being nice to ex-Death Eaters. You wouldn’t like it.” Pansy hums, sipping from the bottle of firewhisky as she watches Finch-Fletchley.

“Don’t be stupid, Parkinson, I can hear the music. Let me in.” He glares, folding his arms. He looks like a child. An ugly little brat having a temper tantrum, actually.

“What music?” She shrugs, blocking the hole in the wall. A burst of laughter comes through, despite the enchantments. “I don’t hear anything. Maybe you should go to Pomfrey, hallucinations aren’t a good sign.”

The annoying idiot glowers at her for a few more seconds, then turns and storms off.

“Good riddance.” She mutters, stepping back through into the common room. Most of the people had gathered in a large circle near the fire, gryffindors, slytherins, ravenclaws and hufflepuffs all mixed together like the socks in Potter’s drawers. She has no idea how the boy manages to get matching socks every day, but he must do so, otherwise Brainbox would complain. By complain, she means glare balefully until it is fixed. Merlin knows enough posters of Pansy’s have received that glare.

“Blaise!” She calls, and the handsome devil appears by her side, yet more buttons undone on his shirt.

“Yes, my beautiful?”

“Do up your buttons.” She downs the rest of the cup. “If you want to date me, I won’t have you being ogled by other girls, got it?”

He rolls his eyes, but does them up anyway. “Anything for your slender hand.”

She’d been confused, at first, but with every sincere gesture Blaise did, Pansy felt her heart softening. It had been a while since someone had tried to win her heart rather than just her body. Even so, she plans to wrap the man around her pinky finger before she lets him kiss her. Better to have a well-trained man than a reckless one.

“But that isn’t what you called me for, right?” He tilts his head, revealing the smooth skin of his neck, and she digs her nails into her palms. Not yet.

“No. You need to put some charms on the door, stop all the noise getting through.”

“Isn’t Draco better for that?” Blaise whines, glancing wistfully towards the circle.

Pansy sighs. “You really want to bring him down here? Into a noisy, crowded room with drunk people?”

He stretches, shirt riding up. This time, Pansy’s tongue is pinned into place by her teeth. “Fine. I’ll do it. You keep an eye on everyone else, make sure none of them get too horny.”

She snorts. Not like that would happen. The relationships of this year are a far cry from the desperate, clingy lust of the last. Having their lives in danger made many reckless, including Pansy. Now, she wishes she’d waited just a little longer.

Settling onto her favourite chaise lounge with another bottle, she surveys the room. Hermione is upstairs with Draco, teaching him charms, and so Ron is unrestrained. He’s got his arm around Potter, who looks exasperated, and is singing the Chudley Cannons theme song. Terry Boot is booing very loudly at him, which Pansy appreciates. They really are a terrible team.

Further away from the main huddle, Neville is chatting quietly with Nott. Pansy almost becomes interested, until she sees that there is a plant in between them. Of course. Nott nods seriously, then reaches out a hand and strokes the plant, which shivers. It’s strange seeing him so gentle and tender, considering his actions in the war. Still, Pansy isn’t about to judge anyone for what they did back then. She herself behaved like a coward, and is still deeply ashamed of it.

Eyes wandering, she notices a lump in the closed curtains, which is moving. Ah. Cursing Blaise for telling her to stop anyone, she stands gracefully and glides over. If she has to behave like a chaperone, she may as well do it in style. With one flick, she pulls back the curtain, raising her eyebrow at the mass of ginger and blonde hair.

Ginny flushes sheepishly, pressing her back against the window. Luna, on the other hand, smiles innocently as she sits up. “Hello Pansy.”

This is… unexpected. “Luna. You’ve got something on your cheek.”

“Thank you.” Luna rubs away the lipstick stain, standing and holding out her hand to Ginny. “We should go to my room. All the other girls who sleep there will be studying.”

“Okay.” Ginny takes her hand, shoving her skirt back down with the other. “Bye, Parkinson.”

Pansy watches them leave, giggling together, and shakes her head. She’d never thought Luna and Ginny… but something must have happened. Luna isn’t easy to get to know.

“It’s done.” Blaise sidles over to her, slipping his arm around her waist.

She slaps his arm lightly. “No touching until you’ve put your wand away. I refuse to be the victim of an accidental spell.”

“Anything for you, fair maiden.” He simpers, tucking his wand back into his trousers. He’d designed the pocket there himself, fully warded and disguised. Smart, really, but Pansy is more appreciative of the uninterrupted view of his ass.

“Come on, it’s time you enjoy your own party.” He grins, taking her waist again and leading her to the circle. She rests her head on his shoulder, feeling the pleasant tingle of being tipsy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione ducks as the paper birds shoot over her head. “Looks like you’ve got that spell. Why don’t we take a break?”

Draco nods, tucking away the garbage wand. He knows he needs his old wand back, but how is he supposed to ask Potter for it?

“What are you thinking about?” Hermione frowns, pulling together the books and papers with a wave of her wand.

‘My wand.’ He spells, the action now as easy as breathing.

“Your wand? Oh, yes, it is a bit troublesome, I suppose.” With another flick, the stack shoots into a drawer where they now store all his schoolwork. “I could ask McGonagall for permission for us to visit Diagon Alley. What do you think?”

Draco shakes his head vehemently, stomach lurching at the thought of having to see Mr Ollivander. The man had been kind during his stay in Malfoy Manor, but no one is kind enough to not hold a bitter grudge about that.

‘I mean, my wand. Mine. The one Potter stole.’

Stole was a strong word for it. Draco hadn’t exactly fought very hard to keep it, and now he had doubts as to whether the wand would even respond to him anymore. It was rotted with dark magic the last time he’d seen it, and by rights it should be completely Potter’s property now. He’d won it in a fair fight.

Hermione lowers her wand. “Oh, I see. I don’t remember what happened to it. I could ask Harry about it.”

‘When?’

“Now, if you wanted.” She casts a tempus. “Yes, they should all be downstairs. You should come with me.”

Leaving his room. Draco digs his fingernails into his palms at the thought. He hadn’t been out for Merlin knows how long, and now Hermione is suggesting he leave just like that? As though it isn’t as hard for him as going up to McGonagall and punching her in the face.

‘Alright.’

He doesn’t know why he writes it, but some part of him yearns to go outside. The other parts scream resistance. 

Hermione smiles, jumping up and helping him to his feet. “I should warn you, they’re having a party down there. Not too many people, only eighth years and a few seventh years, but it will be a little loud.”

Draco snorts inwardly. Well, he’d said yes, so he can’t back out of it now. ‘Got it.’

They leave the room. Fresh, cold air sweeps over Draco’s skin, awakening his body in shock. It’s bright, almost too bright for his eyes. Hermione doesn’t seem bothered by it all, walking ahead with Draco in tow, through the corridor and into the common room.

She wasn’t lying. The noise hits him like a bludger, laughs and shouts and for some reason, crying. He’s surprised no teacher has made the trek up here to yell at them for the volume of the music, but then he feels the wards on the doorway. Blaise’s work, he thinks. Then he wonders why on earth he would know that.

“Malfoy?!” Ron stares at him from a large circle the group has made, which includes a flushed Pansy sprawled all over Blaise. A lot has happened, it seems.

Draco nods tightly at the ginger, feeling his pulse rocket. The noise in the room dims a little as everyone turns to stare. A Malfoy with a muggleborn. He supposes it’s a rare sight to see.

“Harry!” Hermione calls, ignoring the odd dip in volume as she brings Draco over to him. “Do you remember where you put Draco’s old wand?”

Harry blinks at her in confusion for a few seconds. Then his face lights up and he pats himself down, eventually pulling the wand, Draco’s precious old wand, out of a pocket. “I forgot about this! I was going to give it to you when I found it, but… it must have slipped my mind at some point. Here.” Potter sticks it out towards him with a grin.

Draco reaches out a shaking hand, doubts suddenly invading his mind. What if it didn’t accept him? What if this was some sort of prank? What if it had broken sometime during the war? What if it did work, and then he realised he didn’t deserve it? What if the wand remembered all those lives Draco’s responsible for taking, and sets itself on fire?

“What’s wrong?” Hermione whispers, a crease in her forehead.

‘Nothing.’ He spells, and takes the wand. There’s a tense moment where he fears his doubts were true, but then a rush of magic shudders down his spine and he senses the wand welcoming him as an old friend.

Hermione smiles brightly, the crease disappearing. “How does it feel?”

‘Wonderful.’ Draco spells, and he means it. Everything else may have completely gone to shit, but his wand still accepts him. Carefully, he shoots a wingardium leviosa, and the chair he aims at doesn’t shoot to the ceiling and set on fire. It lifts, gently, carefully, precisely, just like his spells used to. It feels both familiar and foreign, but it feels absolutely wonderful. A smile rises onto his face.

She watches the chair, a sort of delighted satisfaction on her face. “This will be so much easier for you now. Why don’t we go back and try a few spells out?”

Carefully, Draco shakes his head. The elated feeling bubbles through him, lifting his chin high and shoving his thoughts away. ‘Can we stay? I bet I could beat Potter in a game of Exploding Snap.’

Potter grins, excitement dancing in his eyes. “You’re on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First question:
> 
> Which Hogwarts house do you belong to?
> 
> I myself am a proud Ravenclaw. Never really changed my mind about it like other people sometimes do. I wonder what happens if a person's personality changes during their hogwarts year - they can't move house, but then they're stuck in a house that they don't feel they belong to anymore. Yes, magic is magic, but... oh well.


	22. Trying My Best

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah! So many responses! It's wonderful to hear about you all, seems there's a lot of slytherins here. (Although this is a fanfic focused on Draco, a slytherin, so I really shouldn't be surprised...) Next question is at the bottom! I can't wait to see what you think.
> 
> Ideas or questions or anything else you want to talk to me about, please do! My door is metaphorically always open. It can't be physically, however, because that would be both creepy since you'd know where I lived, and against the government restrictions.
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

Harry dumps his head on top of the page and groans. His eyes burn, his stomach growls, and some foggy part of him is getting convinced that he should just go and let Hermione do the work for him. A nice long sleep sounds perfect.

Instead, he lifts his head and flips to the next page of the book. The candle beside him flickers dimly, making the words on the page dance.

‘To send an enemy into a deep sleep, raise your right arm and…’

No, that would be useless. Unless he casts it on himself, of course, which he is very tempted to do. Shoving his body’s protests to the furthest corner of his mind, he flips the page.

‘The least known spell for making a wizard or witch obey certain commands is the puppeteer curse. This involves…’

Is there even any point in him doing this? Draco had seemed happier at the party last week, playing the games and casting small firework charms. Harry remembered the tiny smile that he’d worn, as though his old wand had held all of his former happiness, and it’s now returned to him. He’d even talked to Ron, briefly.

But then the party had ended, and the next day was the same as ever. Harry had become better at avoiding bad subjects, so Draco no longer refused to look at him when he opened his mouth. Yet the next day he’d acted exhausted, as though the party had taken every ounce of strength he’d recovered.

Harry flicks to the next page, only half concentrating on the words now. This is the best thing for Draco. Something that is guaranteed to make him happy, for longer than one night.

‘The Votum spell, or the fairy godmother spell, is used to grant the wishes of the intended target.’

He flicks to the next page, then pauses and flicks back. Granting wishes?

‘First, the spellcaster must prepare a meal dipped in the following potion, and offer it to the intended. If the intended accepts, the Votum spell cannot be cast. However, the spellcaster cannot explain to the intended that they should not accept, as this would reverse the spell to grant the spellcaster their worst fear.’

Sounds a little risky, but Harry’s lived and breathed risk for the past few years.

‘Then, once the meal is rejected, the spellcaster must taste the meal themselves. This will begin the spell, and they should waste no more time before asking the intended their wish. They must respond within thirty seconds.’

Time limits? Merlin, whoever made this spell must really want it to fail.

‘The intended does not have to answer verbally, however it is recommended. If they answer truthfully, the spellcaster must kiss their forehead, and the spell will be cast. If they answer dishonestly, the spellcaster must spit out the meal and the spell will be null.’

That shouldn’t be a problem. Draco can’t speak, that’s true, but the spell can still be cast. Harry doubts that Draco would lie either; he has no reason to, after everything.

Mind made up, Harry grabs some parchment and starts copying up the spell, along with the potion. He’s a terrible potion maker, but Slughorn could do it for him. All Harry needs to do is work out which food Draco would reject.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Draco turns his wand over in his hand. There’s a few scratches, here and there, that Draco definitely had not put there himself. Damn Potter and his careless habits. Although, in the end, it is really Draco’s fault for making all the decisions that led to the wand being taken in the first place.

He sits up, a rush of nausea threatening to push him back down, but he fights through it. No matter how much the soft, warm, comfortable bed calls to him, he has to write back to his mother today. Placing the wand gently on his bed stand, he drags himself over to his desk, pulling parchment and a quill over to him.

‘Dearest mother,  
Apologies for not writing sooner. I have been busy with a lot of schoolwork and appeasing my teachers, and’

He crumples the paper in his hands, tossing it over his shoulder. His mother can sniff out a lie like a werewolf can sniff out prey.

‘Dear Narcissa,  
I’m sorry I didn’t write, I was stuck in bed wanting to die.’

Woah, no. Another ball of paper flies over his shoulder. He doesn’t want his mother to worry about him too much.

‘Dear mum,

I didn’t mean to ignore your letters, it’s only that there’s been so much happening lately. The school is trying its best to help us eighth years, but some of the students aren’t so willing to accept us. Nothing too bad has happened as of yet, however it’s created tension throughout the school. I have learnt enough to defend myself with, you don’t need to worry, it’s just that trying to do all of my schoolwork and prepare for my future whilst also trying to reconcile with my classmates who were affected is taking a lot out of me.

It has paid off, a little. Hermione Granger and Harry Potter are on better terms with me. I don’t know what I’ve done right. I’m hoping that by the end of the school year I will have made a bigger impact on the student body.

Thank you for all of the books you have sent me. They’ve been a great relief to read, especially with the scent charm you’ve placed on them. It’s nice to be reminded of home. Give all of the house elves my love, and make sure to take care of yourself. I’ll be home for Christmas break soon.

Love,  
Draco Lucius Malfoy’

Better. He folds the parchment, slips it into an envelope, and leaves it on the desk. Hermione or Potter can take it up to the owlery next time they visit. As he thinks that, the door opens and Potter walks in, bright grin on his face and treacle tart in hand. 

“Hey, Draco! I brought you some food from the kitchens.” He holds out the treacle tart to him, which is exactly like Potter, because he knows perfectly well that Draco despises it.

Draco shakes his head, folding his arms and fixing a glare at Potter’s head. ‘No, you have it. It is your favourite, after all.’ It’s a shame he can’t convey his sarcasm through the black lettering.

Potter makes a little fist and punches it in excitement. “Thanks!” He almost seems a little too happy, Draco thinks, too full of energy and too annoying even for Potter.

‘What’s got you so happy?’ Draco trails out of the chair and collapses into his bed, almost groaning in plaesure at the softness of it. He wishes he could lie here forever and never get up.

“Me and Luna were just talking. About wishes, you know?” Potter says keenly, sitting on the end of Draco’s bed. He still hasn’t eaten the tart, which is bizarre, as both him and Weasley have the disgusting habit of shoving food into their mouth like there’s no tomorrow.

Draco just looks at him, waiting for him to go on.

“She was saying there’s actually a way for wishes to be granted, and I said if that were true, my first wish would be to be a Hogwarts professor.” Harry rambles, taking his first hesitant bite of the treacle tart. “What would yours be?”

To die, Draco thinks. I wish I could die and leave everyone to their own business. Mother wouldn’t have to worry about him, and all of his new friends wouldn’t have to keep on pretending they liked him. The rest of the world could celebrate, dancing on his grave in vengeance for the horror he’s caused. Most of all, Draco wouldn’t have to keep on living this rotting life.

But he doesn’t write any of that, because why would he tell Potter? Instead, he spells out the first thing he can think of.

‘I wish that I didn’t have the Dark Mark.’

Potter beams, crumbs falling onto Draco’s bed. Damn Potter. “Great! Well, I’ve got to go to class, so I’ll see you later.”

Then he leans forward, kisses Draco on the forehead, and is gone.

Draco lifts a hand to his forehead, lightly pressing his fingers on the wet spot. Yes, Harry James Potter, the Boy Who Lived Twice, the Saviour of the Wizarding World, had just kissed him on the forehead, just like that.

He can’t help letting out a choked chuckle of confusion. It may make his throat burn in resistance, but he couldn’t not laugh at that. What else is he supposed to do? Accept that as fact? Accept that Harry bloody Potter just kissed his forehead, and his heart is thumping in his ears, and there’s a grin spreading across his face, and he is most definitely, certainly, absolutely fucked.

Oh, Merlin. Draco falls back, head landing against his pillows, and rubs his eyes tiredly. Merlin, why? After all this time, and everything that has happened, he’d thought he’d gotten over it. Especially after the Veritaserum, and the Sectumsempra. But, no, because fate just hates Draco more than he had thought.

He loves Harry bloody Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question time!
> 
> If you could be a creature from the wizarding world, which creature would it be?
> 
> I would be a Fwooper, although I wouldn't like to be kept as a pet with a silencing charm over me. What's the point of having a twitter that makes people insane if you can't use it?


	23. Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've just wrote this, and I'm updating early so that I don't have to read through it again. This one's tough. It's probably harder to write than it is to read, but... if you've got invested in these characters... be warned. We've hit the climax.
> 
> So many comments! I love signing in and seeing all of your thoughts on the story, or on the question, or on anything at all! Anyway, another question at the bottom.
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.
> 
> WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS.   
\- If you wouldn't like to read this, read only up to the ~~~ at the end of Draco's section. I'll explain in the end notes what has happened in the other section.

The light is too bright on his face. Had Hermione opened the curtains? No, she never comes in this early. Luna? No, she wouldn’t punish him like this. Draco groans, rubbing at his eyes, and reaches down to pull the blankets over his head.

His hand grabs at empty air.

Alarmed, he opens his eyes and sits up suddenly, a wave of dizziness crashing over him, even brighter sparks flashing in his eyes than the blinding white light. He doesn’t know where he is. The room is huge, arches crossing high above him, white and blank. As his eyes adjust, he sees he’s wearing a plain white shirt and shorts, but there’s no bandages over his dark mark. In fact, there’s not even a dark mark there.

Disbelief makes him lift his hand and run it over the smooth skin, feeling no scars or dents where someone might have carved it out with magic. It's just… gone.

“Hello?” A faint voice calls out near him. He startles, scrambling to his feet and staring at the newcomer. For the first time in a while, he finds he can stand easily, with no shaking or pain. However, this revelation is quickly outshadowed by the shock of the man standing before him.

Sirius Black, the man whose face was splattered everywhere in their third year. The disgrace of the family. His aunt’s brother-in-law. A man who, by all rights, should be dead.

“You’re the Malfoy boy, aren’t you? Narcissa’s kid.” Black walks forward slowly, looking remarkably clean and healthy for a dead man. “How did you get here?”

Draco backs up quickly, mind racing. Had someone cast a hallucination curse on him? This can’t be real. Black fell through the Veil, so he’s dead, he can’t actually be walking towards Draco, he can’t be!

“Hey, hey, calm down.” Black stops moving, holding his hands out as though he’s taming a wild animal. “It’s ok, I’m not going to hurt you. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I couldn’t hurt you in here. Do you know where you are?”

He shakes his head, then curses himself. He shouldn’t be responding to the man. If he is under a hallucination curse, he would look insane right now, shaking his head at nothing.

Black runs a hand through his hair, sighing, and sitting. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Draco glances around him. The room seems to go on forever, stretching out into the white mist, the two of them the only dots of colour in the place.

(Hallucination curses have to resemble the space you are in. It’s basic knowledge.)  
So… this isn’t a hallucination?  
(Correct. Now then, what else could it be?)  
A dream.  
(Test that. But keep him distracted, just in case. He is a dangerous criminal, after all.)  
Thanks, Sev, you always make me feel so much better.  
A snide smirk. (My pleasure.)

Carefully, he reaches to his thigh, pinching the skin there. At the same time, he flicks his other finger in the air, spelling out letters in his usual black smoke… which doesn’t appear. Frowning, he tries again, briefly noting that the pinch didn’t hurt. Definitely a dream. But why wouldn’t he be able to cast magic in a dream?

Black watches him, a concerned wrinkle in between his eyebrows. “What are you trying to do?”

Draco feels a panicked clenching in his stomach as he tries again. This doesn’t make sense. A lucid dream usually lets him do what he wants, even if he’s being followed by Vold- the Dark Lord. Magic is always there, just like it is in life, because a world without magic is unimaginable. Black is getting closer now, wariness tensing his muscles, so Draco opens his mouth. If the dream won’t let him use magic, it could at least let him speak.

A choked gasp, and nothing more. He tries, pushing all of his energy into it, battling against the sudden spikes of guilt and shame. Still nothing. Again. His throat rasps, burning the skin inside of it, blocking up and ripping open when he coughs. Nothing. Over and over again, there’s nothing.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay!” Black, much closer than Draco had realised, pulls him into a hug. “You can stop. I understand. We’ll stick to yes and no, okay?”

He flinches, the arms around him warm and unnatural. He hates it, he wants the man far away from him, but he can’t tell him. He can’t say one single thing, so he dumps his head on the man’s shoulder and nods weakly. Another few seconds like this won’t kill him, really.

“In the last thing you remember, were you fighting someone?”

He shakes his head. The last thing he remembers is falling asleep as usual, in his own bed, thinking about Harry bloody Potter and his lips. He flushes.

“Was anyone else in the room with you?”

Shake.

“Had you just eaten or drank anything?”

Shake. Harry had eaten a treacle tart in front of him, but that’s not what Black’s asking.

“Had you just fallen asleep?”

Nod.

Black sighs. “Damn cowards. Draco, is it?”

Nod.

“Draco, I don’t know how to tell you this nicely.” Black pauses, hand coming up to gently stroke his hair. A sense of dread creeps up on Draco, winding around his heart and lungs.

“You’re dead.”

Draco reels back, eyes widening in shock and panic. That doesn’t make sense. It can’t make sense. This is a dream, just a stupid dream, because who would kill him? Who would dare kill him on Hogwarts’ grounds?

A whisper of a memory drifts through his mind. McGonagall at the first feast of the year, reminding them to be civil to each other. Warning them about what’s happening on the outside. Telling them of vigilantes, who take revenge on their lost loved ones, killing anyone associated with Death Eaters. How far could they go? Draco hadn’t been paying attention. To kill the person who made all of the deaths possible, of course they’d break into Hogwarts.

He stares at the dead man in front of him. It does make sense. This is just his punishment, isn’t it? He should have kept the list, he should have tried to make amends, but he’d been too caught up in Theo and his own head. Now it’s too late.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry knocks lightly on the door, a tray of food in hand. He’d woken up earlier than usual, filled with nervous energy and excitement. Draco doesn’t have a Dark Mark. Draco will be happy! All because Harry had spent sleepless nights pouring over books, and had found a cure. Hermione will be so proud of him when she finds out!

There’s no response. Draco is likely still asleep, so Harry shifts the tray onto one arm and reaches for the door handle, twisting it. The plate of food tilts alarmingly, pastries threatening to spill over the side, but Harry doesn’t mind. If they do, he can just go back to the kitchens and get more. Draco will be too happy to mind.

“Draco, I brought you breakfast!” He calls, pushing the door open and fumbling for his wand. 

There’s no response, the darkness shrouding Draco’s bed, only showing the faint outline of his figure.

“There’s nice buttery croissants, and warm pain au chocolat, and tea with heaps of sugar, just how you like it.” Harry coaxes, certain that the smell will wake Draco up. 

Speaking of smells, there’s another one mixing with the pastries. Metallic. Thick. Something familiar he can’t quite put his finger on. Finally, he lifts his wand, muttering a spell that lights up the candles around the room.

The tray falls from his hand, plate and cup smashing over the floor.

Draco is on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling. The blankets have been shoved out of the way of his body, arms hanging loose over the sides of the bed, the left one… dripping…

Harry gags, frozen in place, unable to rip his eyes away from the massive chunk of skin hacked out, the blood and muscles and bone merging into a huge bloody mess. His wand, that stupid wand that Harry had kept for so long, lies in splinters on the ground. He can see a unicorn hair poking out, silvery and white, so different from the stained shard of mirror lying next to it.

“Harry? Are you o- FUCK!” Hermione stumbles back, turning and hurling onto the floor beside him.

Distantly, Harry takes in her swear word, brain fixated on the strangeness of her voice using it. It rolls over in his mind, repeating in her voice, then Ron’s, then Pansy’s, then Luna’s, then Harry’s own.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Anything to not focus on the mound of hacked out flesh, a pale, scarred snake tattoo winding through a skull, the blood around it creeping steadily towards Harry.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Someone screams behind them, a girl, or a high-pitched boy. Footsteps, horrified gasps and panicked cries, echoing in the stone hallway. The tea seeps into the floorboards, soaked up by the pastries or merging with the scarlet liquid.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

A mass of fur shoves past him, running towards- running and leaning over- hand pressing to the pulse of-

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Pansy turns to them, rubbing at her eyes, smearing red over her shocked white face.

“He’s-” She chokes back a sob, shaking desperately. “He’s dead.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Hermione yells, starts ordering people to move, pulling Pansy away from- pulling at her and at Harry’s arm, telling him to not look at- telling him to move away from-

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-

“Draco’s dead.” She whispers, and Harry falls apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \-- FOR THOSE WHO WOULDN'T LIKE TO READ THE OTHER SECTION --
> 
> Harry brings Draco breakfast, and finds that he has died. His wand is destroyed, and his dark mark has been removed from him physically, with a mirror shard. Hermione sees after Harry, then another person who screams, which brings the rest of the eighth years over to see. Pansy checks on Draco, announces that he's dead, and then Hermione makes everyone leave. Harry is frozen for all of this.
> 
> \-- -- --
> 
> Well... how about a question to distract from all of that?
> 
> Who is your favourite character in the wizarding world? It can be from Harry Potter, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, the Cursed Child, or even my fanfiction if you really can't decide.
> 
> Mine would have to be Luna. My second is Newt, because he's just too adorable and nice, but Luna does what she wants and does not care one bit about what other people think, which I adore. Plus, she's really pretty, so...


	24. Regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't expect this scene to be as long as it is, but at least you get another early chapter out of it! The loose ends are being tied up, the character flaws are being thought about, the jobs are being assigned, and the ending is approaching. I may have underestimated the number of chapters last time I guessed how much there was left, so... I'll say there's around seven chapters left now, give or take.
> 
> As always, comments are much appreciated!
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.
> 
> WARNING: MORE GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION -- If you would rather not read this, ignore all text in brackets. It isn't really important, it's just Harry remembering what had happened, so you won't miss anything by not reading it.

Draco’s dead, and Harry is completely certain it’s all his fault.

The Dark Mark is gone, just like Draco wished for, but Harry didn’t think it would be anything like this.

(Draco’s eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling, glassy and glossed over and dead-)

He jumps to his feet, walking away as quick as his legs will take him, a clawing horror in his stomach forcing him to move, constantly move, or else the guilt will catch up with him and he’ll be punished. Hermione tries to stop him as he leaves the classroom, but he pushes past her. He needs to get out.

(The drip, drip, drip of blood, trailing in a smooth stream down his arm, pooling on the cold stone floor and creeping towards him-)

It’s cold outside, the sort of day Wood would declare perfect for quidditch. All the students are in lessons, however. He should be in his lesson. His legs stall, wondering if he should turn back and apologise. Then the horror creeps in, pushing him forwards.

Move. Pounding heart, aching legs, clawing at his stomach. Tense muscles. His glasses slip, sticky with sweat which really shouldn’t be coming out of him, he’s not running, but his hands are clammy and it’s definitely his because he’s thinking about it again.

(Pale blonde hair, surrounding his face like a halo. The picture of an angel, floating up to heaven, except his skin is cold and his eyes are ice and there’s a drip drip dripping of blood-)

His legs give out. Collapsing onto the floor, he curls up, a tree rubbing its bark against his back as he feels the guilt rushing towards him. It swallows him whole, caging his chest and pounding against his skull. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe and he doesn’t know where he is and there’s no one there, no one there because he’s just killed Draco, he killed Draco, Draco's dead and he killed him!

A choked sob escapes him, so he lets it all out and screams. The sound echoes through the trees, primal and raw, fueled by horror and guilt and pain. He shouldn’t have done it. Draco was getting better. He’d wanted to help, he’d wanted Draco to do everything he ever wanted. He wanted Draco to speak. He wanted Draco to tell him how grateful he was, to tell him he loved him.

Merlin, Harry hisses in his head. He’d been so fucking selfish.

(The redness, gaping open, blood and bones and muscle and Harry can’t fathom how he could ever have thought he’d seen everything. Bodies. Blood. Death. They’d hung around him for years, leaning over his shoulder, invading his life, but this is a thousand times worse. Draco’s eyes, blank and glassy, staring up-)

A hand rests on his shoulder, making him jump and fumble for his wand. It instantly draws away, the figure crouching beside him. He can’t think, can’t look, can’t breathe. He doesn’t know what to do.

“Harry.” The voice is deep, warm, familiar in a way he can’t quite recognise. “Harry, breathe with me. In… Out… In… Out…”

He shudders, stuttering breaths trying desperately to follow the steady noise of the figure beside him. In. Out. He needs to breathe. Slower, gentler, until the world comes into focus. The hand reaches out hesitantly, so he grabs onto it, feeling the firm skin beneath him like an anchor to reality.

In, out. In, out.

Wetness on his cheeks. The wind in his hair, on his face. The skin under his hand. The bark on his back. The chirping of birds in the trees, the whistle of wind through his teeth, the rustling of the leaves above. His heart begins to slow as he rubs his eyes and focuses again, panic seeping away gently.

“Better?” Nott asks, a streak of dirt across his cheek moving with his jaw. His eyes are concerned, even when he’s as stony-faced as ever, and somehow Harry doesn’t feel angry or cold towards him. Awkward and self-conscious, yes, but not hating.

Hesitantly, he nods, still regulating his breathing. For Nott to find him here, like this… He doesn’t think he can quite get over the humiliation. He’s the Saviour. He’s supposed to be the strong, unshakeable one, not the one breaking down in the middle of the Forbidden Forest.

“Come on.” Nott pulls him to his feet, and starts leading him along the path. “I’ll get you some tea. Maybe you can try one of Hagrid’s rock cakes as well.”

Harry makes a face, and Nott snorts with laughter, as though he and Harry have been bosom buddies all this time. For the moment, Harry lets it go. After what Nott has just done for him, he doesn’t think he has the right to start giving the boy the cold shoulder. Besides, Nott is working for Hagrid now, so he can’t be as bad as Harry had thought.

“I’m not as stuck up as the others, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Nott glances at him. “I don’t care about any of the pureblood stuff. If Hagrid lets me work with him, I don’t have any reason to hate him. Half giant or not.”

“I didn’t think you were.” Harry mumbles, then subconsciously glances at Nott’s left forearm, which he’s still holding onto. He lets go awkwardly, wondering if he’s hurt him. He knows Draco’s arm hurt a lot. It’s always wrapped in a thick layer of bandages, after all.

It was. It was wrapped in bandages. Past tense.

Nott notices the action, and tenses. “Hm. I thought you didn’t care about that stuff anymore.” His voice is a little bitter.

“I don’t!” Harry protests, cursing himself. “I just thought it might hurt.”

The other boy looks at him curiously, tension melting, then pulls up his sleeve. The Dark Mark twists against his arm, faded ink writhing as though in pain, but there’s another line around it. White ink, marked on in a circle of flowers around the Dark Mark. It shines in the sunlight, iridescent and glowing.

“I spent the last of my money getting this done.” He says, letting Harry trace the circle in astonishment. “White magic, specially created to withstand dark magic. It’s rare, impossible to find unless you know where to look. My mother did. I went through her journals, and found a white tattoo artist, who did this for me. The dark magic inside the circle is contained, and can’t do any damage outside of the circle. Therefore, it can’t make me feel pain, or make me think about the Dark Lord, or tell him where I am if he ever does come back.”

“He won’t come back. He’s dead.” Harry says, looking back up at Nott’s face.

Nott pulls down his sleeve again. “Better to be safe than sorry, right?” With that, he pushes open the door to Hagrid’s hut, and heads to the kettle.

“Wait. You said the ‘last of your money’.” Harry frowns, settling into his usual seat. Hagrid and Fang are out clearing an infestation of bark beetles, if the papers on the table are anything to go by, so the two of them have the hut to themselves.

“That’s right.” Nott pulls out two mugs, rummaging in Hagrid’s haphazard cupboards for teabags. “Not everyone got off as easily as the Malfoys or the Parkinsons or the Zabinis. We didn’t have much money to begin with, and since they assume all us purebloods are rich, they took almost every penny. Dad’s in Azkaban, so he can’t make more. Why else do you think I wouldn’t have run off to Russia by now?”

Harry picks at the edge of the table, flushing. He has more money than ever before now, with all of the presents and awards and paid interviews from saving their world. Even before that, his parents had left him enough money to not have to work ever again. For Nott, a pureblood who he’d always thought looked down on him, to not have enough money to eat seems unbelievable. Purebloods are rich and arrogant and fascist. Nott doesn’t seem to be any of these things now.

“I’m sorry.” Harry mutters, watching Nott gripping the counter tightly, his back to Harry. “I didn’t know. Is that why you’re working here?”

“No.” Nott sighs, picking the kettle up as it clicks. “I’m tired of being angry at everything. I’m not going to keep on hating everyone and myself. I’ve already destroyed enough of my life doing that.” He pours out the tea into the cups and turns to set one in front of Harry, the other one cradled between his hands. He looks old, far older than a boy of eighteen should look. “If I can stay here, just living and working without having to be dragged into the world again, I think I can be happy. Or at least a little more at peace.”

Harry blows onto the steaming liquid, letting the silence settle a little. It sounds nice. He’s always hated being in the spotlight, being relied upon. At first, he missed the purpose and direction of fighting against Voldemort. He didn’t want to fade away quietly, with no real aim. Now he thinks he was wrong. It wasn’t the action he was missing; it was having something to work towards.

“Look at me, spilling my heart out to the Boy Who Lived Twice.” Nott smirks, slipping into the seat opposite. “If I’m giving you some blackmail material, you may as well give me yours. I can’t exactly hold a panic attack over you without feeling dirty. Come on. Spill, Saviour.”

Harry sips at the tea, then sets it down gently. “I killed Draco.” He whispers before he can stop himself, all of the horror and guilt creeping up again.

Nott is silent for a while, brown eyes staring at Harry blankly. “How?”

“I found a spell to give someone a wish and I asked Draco for his and he said that he wanted his Dark Mark gone and I cast the spell without anyone knowing about it and then I came in the next morning and the spell had worked but it killed him, Nott, it killed him. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to do it.” He rushes out the words, voice strained and panic building again. He can’t look at Nott’s face, knowing the anger and disgust must be building on it.

Nott’s chair screeches as he stands sharply, footsteps pacing on the wood as he walks around the hut, uncomfortable silence prickling the back of his neck. Harry’s fingers clench around his cup, teeth stabbing into his bottom lip as he tries not to let out a choking sob. He fails.

The pacing stops, Nott standing right next to him. His hand comes down softly onto Harry’s shoulder, who can’t help but tense, knowing that Nott will definitely hit him. Instead, the boy kneels down next to him, looking straight into Harry’s face, anguish struggling to be contained under his mask.

“Why?”

“I thought he would be happy. I didn’t want him to be sad anymore. I’m sorry. I made a mistake, a horrible mistake, and now I can’t take it back.” Harry sniffles, nails pressing into his cup. “I’m sorry.”

“Magic can’t fix everything.” Nott starts. His voice is frustrated, but he does nothing to lash out at Harry. “Expelliarmus might stop the Dark Lord, but you can’t always be the Saviour, Harry. Sometimes, people just need time and understanding to sort things out themselves. This was Draco’s fight. Even if Draco had been given everything in the world, he would still have had to deal with his own thoughts. Magic couldn’t fix him. The only thing you could have done was be there for him when he needed it, given him space, given him comfort, allowed him to work it all out himself. I couldn’t do that, so I gave him space for people like Pansy and Hermione and Luna and Blaise to help him instead. You should have just- just waited!”

Nott’s voice cracks, so he stands and walks back over to the counter, leaning against it and dropping his head. “Just because you love someone, it doesn’t mean you know what’s best for them.”

Harry stares at his tea, rippling in a faint wind. He’d been selfish, that was it. If he had Draco here with him again, he would do everything that Nott just told him and he would never, ever use magic on him again. But he can’t have a second chance, because Draco is dead.

“Thanks for the tea.” Harry mutters, then curses himself for saying such a stupid thing. “I’ll… I’m going to tell McGonagall what I did. Thank you for helping me in the forest. You’re… you’re a decent guy, Nott.”

Nott doesn’t respond as Harry stands, sorts out his clothes, and walks to the door. Just as he’s about to leave, he finally speaks up.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Bring me that book, please. The one with the spell you cast in it. And… I don’t hate you. You did what you did, and I’ve done what I’ve done, and if you can still think I’m decent after that, I can give you a chance too. Call me Theo. Just don’t cast stupid spells again.”

Eyes welling up, Harry can only manage a single nod before walking out, regret tasting sour in his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't know how to write panic attacks, I've never experienced or seen one happening before... If you do have more knowledge on them, and feel I've written something wrong about it, please tell me, so I can do better in the future. Thank you!
> 
> \-----
> 
> Question time!!!
> 
> How should Harry be punished for what he did to Draco? Or should he even be punished at all?
> 
> Yes, maybe this question is a little for my own benefit, but I really can't decide. He can't be locked up or killed, but other than that the floor is open to any ideas you might have. Let the jury of the comments section decide!


	25. Don't Let Me Be Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My cat keeps meowing at me and trying to open this cupboard, so I really can't think of much to say. She's an adorable fluffball, but I really can't deal with her sometimes...
> 
> As ever, anything you would like to say, be it questions, ideas, or just random thoughts, please leave in the comments! I love reading what you think of the chapters.
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

Limbo is quieter than what Draco had expected. He and Black are the only ones there, drifting between life and death, although Black has said that he expects Draco will move on soon. Apparently many people have passed through here.

For now, they sit in silence, both leaning against a column. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here - the light never changes from bright white, and his body feels like it’s floating. Does time even exist in Limbo? He isn’t sure.

“Before you came here, did you see Harry?” Black breaks the silence, words a shock in the still quiet.

Draco nods, suppressing the fluttering in his stomach. The last time he saw Harry, the man had kissed his forehead. He reaches pale fingers up and brushes them over the spot, recalling the soft press of lips to his skin.

“Did he seem happy?” Black’s face is twisted in worry, hands in his lap tense.

Draco nods again. Why would Harry not be happy? He’s the Saviour, the Blessed Baby, the Boy Who Lived Twice. The stupid scarface who has been riding a broomstick of success from the minute he survived Volde- the Dark Lord’s killing curse.

“Good. That’s good.”

They slip into the silence again until Black speaks up. His voice is little more than a mutter, rambling to himself rather than actually addressing Draco.

“I wish you could speak. Then you could tell me about Harry, and about Remus, and about what they’re doing. You’re probably the only person who knows about them who is going to pass through for a long time. Now, I’ll probably have to wait until another family member dies, which will hopefully be a long time.”

Draco digs his nails into the palm of his hand, a flood of unexpected resentment rising up inside of him. Black is his family member. Black is his first cousin once removed. Black grew up in the same sort of household as him, yet Black doesn’t care one bit that Draco is dead. Instead, he’s worried about Potter, who seems to be doing just fine without Black.

“It’s cruel, really. I became his godfather, promised to take care of him if Lily and James died, and then I only ended up knowing him for little more than two years.” Black sighs, oblivious to Draco’s growing anger. “I wish things could have been different. I wish James and Lily were still alive.”

I wish you could have focused more on your own family, Draco thinks. I wish you could have seen what was happening, seen what would have happened to me, and tried to stop it instead of worrying about a boy who has everything he ever needed. Potter is fine without you.

“Do you think I should have done something differently?” Black glances at him, then stalls as he sees Draco’s expression. “Are you alright?”

No! Draco wants to scream. No, because you and the rest of my family didn’t ever give a shit about me! I was branded, used, abused, and then thrown aside because none of you ever cared! Even my own father couldn’t protect me, wouldn’t protect me! Why can’t you see that?!

Instead, he pushes to his feet and runs away from Black, praying that Limbo really is endless and Black won’t ever find him again. The man calls out after him, but he keeps running, his floating body never getting tired. Eventually, Black’s voice fades away, but he keeps running and running, wishing he could run into the abyss and not have to feel anything anymore. It seems that even in death he can’t be free of the thunderstorm in his head.

“Draco?”

The new voice slams into his ribcage, forcing him to fall back to the floor with gasping breaths. A tall thin man stands a little way off, platinum hair streaming down his back like a shining stream of gold, hair that Draco remembers sifting through as a child.

No.

He gasps, heaving air into his lungs as his father approaches, white robes flapping slightly in the non-existent wind. Draco tries to stand, muscles automatically tensing in anticipation at the sight of him, and shame floods through him as he realises this. He’s scared of his own father.

“Is that really you?” His father crouches down beside him, reaching out a hand to touch Draco’s cheek. He flinches back, the blinding pain of a crucio flashing through his mind. His father falters, uncertainty passing over him, and Draco can see the lines in his face deeper than they’ve ever been before.

“How are you here?” His father’s grey eyes flick over him, hand dropping to rest by his side. “I thought- But you were at Hogwarts- You should have been safe!”

How is he dead? Draco’s mind accelerates, confusion and dread flooding his veins. His father is supposed to be in Azkaban. Locked away and probably miserable, but alive in his cell. How is he here?

His father runs a hand over his harrowed face, the lines in his face creasing as despair sets in. “You were supposed to be safe. I’m so sorry. I thought- When I died, I thought you would be safe. I thought they’d be happy enough that I was gone that they would leave you alone! Draco, I’m so, so sorry!”

Draco shudders, horror rising rapidly. His father is dead. He hadn’t even visited him since he’d been taken away, and now the man who Draco had adored since he was born is dead. Eyes blurring, Draco desperately drinks in every part of his dead father, knowing with awful certainty that this will be the last time he ever sees him.

Tears are streaking down his father’s face too. “Can you forgive me, Draco? I didn’t mean for you to get hurt. I didn’t mean for it to ever get this bad. I wanted us to be happy, to be powerful, to be alive and together. He forced my hand, Draco, I knew he’d kill us all if I didn’t let him recruit you. I failed you. Please, my son, my beautiful boy, please forgive me!”

With every word, Draco feels his heart tighten. Forgiveness. How can he forgive him? His father had put him in impossible positions again and again, taught him hate and fear and prejudice from the moment he was born, spat at him and glared at him and cursed him until Draco did exactly as he was told. His father was the one who’d lead him down this path of destruction and pain and death. How can he forgive him?

“Please, Draco. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen!”

Draco steels his nerves, cold fury hardening around his heart as he makes to pull away.

“I love you, my sweet child, I’ve always loved you and been so proud of you! I never meant to hurt you like this. I’m so sorry!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Draco curls into his father’s lap, six years old with a recently broken arm, tears streaking down his face. It’s not often this happens, but his mother is out and his father had not wanted the house elves to comfort him. His gentle hand strokes through Draco’s fluffy hair, body relaxed and giving off a soothing warmth.

“Draco, you should be more careful with your broomstick. I won’t always be there to carry you back to the house.”

“I’m sorry, father.” Draco sniffles. “I only wanted to be like that bird. It looked so free and pretty…”

“You can be free and pretty without needing to break your arm.” Lucius sighs. “When you go to Durmstrang, you will be playing Quidditch against boys much stronger and bigger than you.”

Draco cringes, remembering countless conversations about his weak health. His father says it’s made Narcissa dote on him too much, but Draco knows it’s made his father think of him as a weakling, some puny skeleton that can be trampled easily.

“However,” Lucius continues, “they won’t be counting on your agility and your smarts. You will study hard, Draco, and you’ll think more about what you do. When you’re older, you won’t break your arm going that high. But it will take time and hard work. You will be the best, so you need to think about what you do. You can’t do silly things like fly higher than you’re supposed to.”

“Yes, father.” Draco mumbles.

“Don’t mumble.”

“Yes, father!” He raises his voice.

“Better. Now tell me what you’re going to do to improve.”

“Study hard and think about things and be smart.” Draco summarises, closing his eyes and snuggling further into his father’s warmth. “And then I can be the best, and I can fly really really high and I can fly all the way up to grandma and tell her about my school and the garden and the things I’ve been practising, and she can tell me what it’s like where she is…”

He can feel the wispy strands of sleep creeping up on him, coating his mind in a fuzzy haze. His father’s hand on his hand slows, silence drifting over them for a few seconds, letting Draco slip further into the comfortable darkness.

“Perhaps you could.” Lucius murmurs, breaking his code of clearly audible words. “You’ve always managed to go beyond what’s expected. Perhaps you could fly so high you could hold the moon in your hand, and your mother would see you safe and I could show the world what you can do. Look at my son, up there in the clouds, with the moon in his hand and the stars in his hair.”

Draco doesn’t understand. He’s too young, with a brain already foggy with dreams, and not enough experience of the world to understand.

“Your grandfather, and his father, and his father before that would be so proud. Our family would shine brightly up there, in the stars in your hair. My little dragon, finally free to fly, not weighed down by the harsh world outside. There would be no need to make you learn to survive. No monsters up there to catch you. The moon in your hand and the stars in your hair.”

Snuffling, Draco lets the world fade around him, and dreams of stars and moons consume him.

“My little dragon.” Lucius sighs wistfully, voice barely heard. “I love you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Please, Draco, please forgive me! I love you!”

Draco takes in a shuddering breath, and nods.

His father had turned into a twisted, desperate man. He’d grasped at broken beliefs, molded them until they could excuse what he did, and then dragged his family along into it. He’d dragged Draco, sixteen and naive, into murder. He can’t ever forgive him for that.

But it was war. It was a time where even the best of people could do the worst things. His father is by no means a good man, but the echoes of Draco’s childhood can’t let him suffer alone. The admiration and awe he’d held for his father, the years of clawing for a scrap of love from the man, it hasn’t just disappeared. Hearing these words, even when they’re falling out in a blubbering mess, it fills a hole in Draco’s heart that he didn’t even know he had.

His father loves him, and Draco has always loved his father, even now. He can at least allow him this moment of peace in his death.

Lucius swarms forward, pulling Draco into a tight hug he isn't sure what to do with. His throat is clogging up. He wants to say something, needs to spill out all of this emotion, needs to tell his father everything he’s been holding inside since he learnt how to hide.

He can’t.

There’s a light, pulsing inside his father. Lucius pulls away, tear-streaked face filled with astonishment and a sudden peace, and gives Draco a last smile.

Then he’s gone, shattering into white light that melts into the floor and the walls, leaving Draco bitterly alone again, unspoken words caged in his throat. He sinks into himself, heart throbbing. His father is gone, forever.

Draco never got to tell him he loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question time!
> 
> Do you have any pets? If so, what are their names?
> 
> I have a beautiful cat called Marbles, who is a very loud fluffball. Her favourite hobby is sprawling over my laptop or paper that I'm trying to read or write on. I think I'll go give her love and affection now, otherwise her meowing will drive me insane.


	26. Malfoy Manor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeesh.. Ok, this chapter and the next were supposed to be one, but it went on for quite a long time, so I'm publishing this half now as an individual chapter and the next half later (when i actually finish writing it). Lots of Harry content, lots of Malfoy Manor content, and a whole lotta angst. Woop!
> 
> All of your pets sound adorable! A lot of cats, which I strongly approve of. As always, questions or ideas or just random babblings are forever appreciated.
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

Harry sits in the hospital wing, clutching a broken nose, and regretting every decision he’s ever taken.

It hadn’t been so bad, at first. McGonagall had looked disappointed, upset, making Harry sink in his seat, but her punishment had been light. Monitored magic use, along with the job of telling Narcissa her son is dead. Harry isn’t looking forward to it, yet he knows it could have been a lot worse. He has a feeling McGonagall didn’t want the Ministry involved. They can’t do anything to Harry without public protest.

Then the news had spread. It’s hard to keep a secret in Hogwarts, now, especially when Harry’s involved. So he’d walked through the corridors, avoiding the disgusted glances of eighth years and the disgusting celebrations from the younger years, which made his skin crawl. How can they be happy that Draco is dead? How can they congratulate him for killing an innocent boy?

When Pansy broke his nose, he was almost glad. She hadn’t said anything, just marched up to him in the middle of a group of gushing fifth years and punched him. They’d all descended on her, of course, but her and Blaise cast enough hexes and jinxes between them that the entire group of them ended up in the hospital wing.

He can feel Pansy’s glare on him now, practically restrained to her bed by Blaise, both of them with healing boils and slime from a new hex. Madam Pomfrey fusses over them, mostly ignoring the younger students, who are constantly sniping about how Draco deserved it. They’d left Harry alone when he started growling at them, but their conversation is still itching at him.

He doesn’t want to be some sort of figurehead for those stupid ideas. He doesn’t want people to think he meant to do it. He hates the admiring glances, hates the pats on his back and the small notes they pass him. It’s only been two days since Draco died, and yet he feels like he’s going insane with all of the attention, getting whiplash from the extremes of good and bad.

Hermione and Ron have drawn away from him. They don’t pair up with him in class, or force him to do his homework. He has to sleep in the room where Draco’s body lay, cold and still, because he can’t bear the thought of having to ask Ron to move to his room instead. Half of him thinks Ron wants him to, so that they can talk it out and be friends again, but the other half thinks Ron doesn’t want to be around a killer.

Luna is the only one who sticks around. She invites him to talk to the thestrals, to collect herbs, to knit scarves and sew outfits. He thinks about how she’d greeted Draco at the start of the year, all kindness and smiles, ready to forgive him for everything, and he feels sick to his stomach. She reminds him too much of Draco. Her long blonde hair is light and fluffy, like Draco’s halo of hair, and her pale skin and quiet manner sparks images of Draco on his good days. She smiles, a smile that Draco used to receive, half pity and half love.

Pomfrey tends to his broken nose quickly, roughly, and then speeds away again. He wonders whether she loved Draco too, in the end. She’d healed his arm, when Buckbeak attacked him. She’d tended to his sectumsempra wounds. She’d been there to heal the bruises when Draco was attacked and Harry brought him here. She’d looked after him after the boggart incident. For him to be dead, after all that care and attention…

She must have been like a mother to him, in some ways. She must be like a mother to all of her students.

Harry slips out of the ward, feeling like he’s drifting in his thoughts, an ocean of resentment against what he’d done.

Now he has to tell Draco’s real mother that her son is dead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“On the way in? Careful, you don’t know what you’ll find in there.” The ministry worker chuckles, punching his shoulder lightly. “Might be some stray curses from You Know Who! Still, I’m sure you could stop ‘em. You are the Saviour, after all!”

Harry swallows awkwardly, trying his best to smile back at the man. “Yeah, uhm, right. How do I get the gates to open?”

“Just go up to them. They got some magic on it to recognise you. Dark magic, probably, you know what the Malfoys are like. Keep your wand close. She may be an old hag, but her sister was that mad one.”

“Right, thanks.” Harry mumbles, pushing aside the manic laughs of Bellatrix in his head. “I think I’ll be fine. She did save my life, you know.”

The ministry worker laughs uproariously, then stops hesitantly when he sees Harry’s face. “You serious?”

Harry rubs his face, pushing past the man to approach the gates. He thought people knew that. He’d told everyone at her trial, although he supposes the newspapers aren’t likely to print that. The Boy Who Lived Twice defending the wife of a Death Eater? No one would want to read that.

“Be careful, Harry Potter!” The man seems to get over his initial shock, pulling out his wand and readying it. “I doubt she’ll be so friendly now that her husband’s dead.”

With that, the man disapparates, leaving Harry reeling. Dead? Lucius? Surely he misheard. It would be wrong for both Draco and his father to die at the same time. It’s too much of a coincidence to be real.

Shaking his head, he dismisses his unease and stops in front of the gates, memories of the last time he was here flooding his mind. Hermione screaming. Bellatrix’s laughter. Dobby’s-

The gates creak open, large and ominous, and a gusto of cold wind blows into Harry’s face. He shivers. The stench of dark magic and death is strong in the air, creeping out of the estate eagerly. He hurries inside, relieved when the gates rattle shut behind him, trapping the hissing fury of darkness inside.

Trapping him inside, too.

He gulps, setting off down the long pathway. The unsettling feeling follows him, surrounds him, and Harry wonders how in Merlin’s name Narcissa is surviving in this place. He wonders how Draco survived, in the months between the trial and school starting. Then he realises Draco didn’t survive, not really. He’d been a ghost, his past self barely peeking its head out.

The front doors are already open when he reaches them, but no Narcissa greets him. He steps inside nervously, looking around the large entrance hall. Portraits look back, murmuring to each other, a few with hideous scratches along them. Werewolf claws, by the looks of it. Greybeard.

“Mistress would like mister Potter to follow Gobsy, sir.” A house elf pops into sight next to him, bony fingers fiddling with a silver sash.

Harry nods wordlessly, trying to remember where he’d seen that outfit before. Green silk, silver sash. Stitches careful but a little too large, done by someone inexperienced.

(“Isn’t it beautiful? The note says his mother made it by hand.” Luna swoops over to a tiny full-body outfit, green silk sewn in at the waist and a silver sash sliding from shoulder to hip.)

Of course. Draco had given it to Luna so she could lay it over Dobby’s grave. Harry had been such an idiot back then, bursting into a girl’s dormitory because he actually thought Draco would kill her, the one person from another house who didn’t hate him.

Maybe if he hadn’t been so suspicious back then, he could have helped Draco more. Maybe he wouldn’t have cast that spell.

Narcissa rises as Harry follows Gobsy into one of the vast rooms. The darkness seems to have seeped into her, shallow cheeks and pale skin giving a deathly glow that Harry wishes he couldn’t see. Her eyes are rimmed red. She had been crying. Does she already know what he is going to say?

“Mister Potter for you, mistress.” The house elf bows low, nose brushing the stone floor, and then pops from sight.

“Please, take a seat.” Narcissa smiles, a ghostly beauty even in her older age. Harry sits on the edge of an armchair, the cushion stiff and uncomfortable beneath him. He wonders for a second why they would have such a horrible armchair when they have so much money. Then he remembers how Draco had more pride than common sense, and he sighs internally.

“Mrs Malfoy, I-”

“Narcissa, please.” The woman interrupts him, sinking back into her own stiff sofa. It reminds him of Pansy’s favourite chaise lounge. He makes a mental note to ask her if she and Narcissa have discussed furniture, then remembers that Pansy hates him.

“Narcissa.” He pauses, words clogging up his throat. They don’t seem to want to leave, and he thinks he finally understands why Draco could never force words out. “Narcissa, there’s something I have to tell you.”

“I’m afraid I already know about my husband, Mr Potter.” She says gently, picking up a delicate cup of tea and sipping. “The ministry was quicker to tell me of his death than they will ever be to tell me when my house arrest will end.”

Harry winces at the bitter tone of her voice, heart plummeting at her words. Lucius really is dead, then. How can he tell her about Draco now?

“I apologise. It is polite of you to visit. How has Draco taken the news?” Her voice is light, concern lacing her words clearly.

“Narcissa, Draco is-” Again, the words stick, choking him as his throat tightens with guilt. He can’t do this. He just can’t. “I’m sorry, do you have a bathroom I could use?”

“Of course. Down the corridor and to the left, Gobsy will show you-”

He’s already off, fleeing from the room with the guilt snapping at his heels. Her sharp face, defined cheekbones and sloping eyebrows, they remind him so much of Draco. His heart caves in on itself, emotions bursting free of the wreckage as he stumbles through dark halls, the shadows in the corners clutching onto his desperation and ripping it open. He can’t do this. He thinks he’s going to be sick.

Draco’s dead. His mother, with her sallow cheeks and red-rimmed eyes, has to carry the consequences of Harry's stupidity. He can’t do this, can’t lay the burden of more death onto her already heavy shoulders.

Crackling yellow spells attract his attention to a dining room, door open yet sealed off with magic. He can feel the pulsing heart of dark magic inside of there, hear the screeching frost stabbing into him, and knows he could walk in that room and let himself be ripped apart by it. 

He takes a step there, pulling out his wand to dispel the spitting barrier. He deserves it. The despair reaches into his chest, twisting the guilt into furious flames that tell him to walk further, walk into that room and end it all.

He can’t tell her what he’s done. He deserves to be dead, not Draco. He has no one waiting at home for him, no one who would be all alone without him. Draco had done anything and everything to protect his mother, had been the only person he truly protected and loved, and he hadn’t even said goodbye to her. Because of Harry.

“Mister Harry Potter, sir!” A small hand grips his wrist, and suddenly he’s in a bedroom, the raging emotions gone as quickly as they had arrived. He blinks, staring down at the watery-eyed house elf.

“Mister Harry Potter, sir, you should never go in that room, sir!” He squeaks, letting go of Harry’s wrist and shaking his head furiously, making his ears flap against his head. “Bad place, sir, no good for your head, sir. No one but the master allowed in there. Mister Harry Potter, sir, should never go in there.”

“Alright, okay, I won’t go in there.” Harry frowns, looking about him. The room is clean, but the windows have a darkening charm on them, and candles are scattered everywhere. A book lies on the bedside table, along with an empty tray, and Harry wanders over to investigate. The smell hits him then, and he has to stop himself from bursting into tears.

Draco. The room smells so strongly of Draco that memories flood him, clawing for his attention.

Draco’s baleful glares when Harry says something sensitive. His sneering face right in front of Harry’s, just begging to be punched. His snooty sniffs as he passes Harry in the corridor, muttering an insult. His huge grin when Harry gave him his wand. His confused eyes when Harry stood up at his trial. His laugh, more of a breath than anything, when Harry lost yet another game of Exploding Snap.

Draco’s blank eyes staring at the ceiling.

Harry flinches, shoving the image away as he examines the room. It must be Draco’s. No guest room would smell this strongly of him, and his parents room would not have an empty wardrobe. Well, almost empty. Robes hang there, green and black and silver. Harry wonders why Draco never wore anything but muggle clothes under his cloak.

His bed is piled with blankets, far more than necessary. He thinks he sees dried blood on a pillow, and remembers when he’d seen Draco spitting blood into the sink in the morning. He had gone back for his socks, having accidentally left them behind, but Draco had looked so furious at being caught that he’d fled and never mentioned it again. Perhaps he should have.

“Gobsy didn’t think where else to go, sir.” The house elf mumbles. “Mister Harry Potter should not be in young master Draco’s bedroom. Mister Potter should follow Gobsy now, sir, yes he should.”

“Why was this the first place you went?” Harry asks, turning to follow the house elf. He isn’t sure why he asks, exactly, he only feels there has to be something significant about it. Surely a house elf would automatically go to the kitchens, or their living area.

“Young master Draco always want to be taken back here, Mister Potter, sir. He never walk here on his own, sir, not with those legs, Gobsy thinks. Young master Draco always needing help with everything. Gobsy thinks young master Draco was waiting to die, sir.” Gobsy’s eyes fill with tears, hands trembling. “Poor young master Draco. Mistress and Gobsy happy he went. The creepy crawly shadows not good for him, mister Potter, sir. Always creeping in his head.”

So it isn’t just him who feels it. “Gobsy, what do you mean he needed help with everything? He can walk fine.”

“Not then, sir. Too much lying in bed. Gobsy stayed to help young master Draco and mistress. Don’t know what they’d do without Gobsy, sir. Gobsy stays because young master Draco was always a little weak, sir, always ill and in bed. Snakey man never good, infected poor manor, and young master Draco always caught everyone’s illnesses. Young master Draco infected, Gobsy thinks.”

Harry shivers. Something about the way he says it makes the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. Maybe he was right to try and help, to try and cure Draco of this sickness Gobsy thinks he had.

(“Even if Draco had been given everything in the world, he would still have had to deal with his own thoughts. Magic couldn’t fix him.”)

No, Theo was right. Magic only made everything worse with Draco. He should have kept far away.

“Gobsy would liked to have had young master Draco well again. Gobsy thinks it is too quiet here.” The house elf lowers his voice. “Gobsy thinks mistress is ill, too. Gobsy knows mistress can’t go away, but Gobsy thinks he would like to take her anyway. Too much death. But mistress will stay for young master Draco, and so Gobsy will too.”

Harry thinks he would like to take Narcissa away too. Death creeps around her family, and Harry feels responsibility now. With Draco gone, he has to take care of Narcissa.

He can’t let her slip away too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not often I'll do this, but I think I'll start recommending writers or specific fanfictions to you. (I really just need something to do or write about, and I've seen other people do it, so I thought, why not?) 
> 
> This chapter's recommendation is... VeteranKlaus! If you love reading about Klaus from the Umbrella Academy, VeteranKlaus has written a lot of fanfictions on this. Some are incomplete, but there are a lot of interesting ideas and possibilities explored very well. They have a good style of writing too, so for picky readers like me, you won't be disappointed.
> 
> Question time!
> 
> What fandoms do you like reading about on here? Or which fandoms do you think you'll start reading about?
> 
> For me, I definitely read a lot of Assassination Classroom, but only specifically about Gakushuu. Harry Potter is up there, again specifically Draco things, as evident by this fanfic. BNHA about Todoroki, and Bakugou, but never Izuku (please don't kill me but Izuku kinda annoys me in canon). Then there's The Umbrella Academy, which I've only really started reading recently, and sometimes if I'm really running out of interest in everything I'm currently reading, I'll read Sherlock or Merlin things. I hesitate with the Merlin stuff, because it's such a part of my childhood that having adult stuff about it in fanfic is just... weird to read.


	27. Save Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, finally done writing the second half of the chapter! It was a little short yesterday, so I added an extra scene at the end that doesn't really contribute much but is there anyway. Actually... I think that's probably most of the scenes in this entire thing. I had no idea what I was doing until, like, threee chapters ago.
> 
> As always, any ideas or questions or random comments are always appreciated! It's great being able to talk to you and see what you think of what I write.
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

“Harry. May I call you Harry?” Narcissa stands as he walks back in, setting the empty cup down. “How are you feeling? I know this must not be a pleasant place to be.”

“No, no, it’s alright.” Harry hastily reassures her, sitting down after her. “You can call me Harry. It’s weird to be called Mr Potter all the time.” He laughs nervously, and Narcissa joins in with a tinkling laugh, polite and restricted yet clear and bright, like the chandelier in the front hall.

“I know the feeling. Becoming Mrs Malfoy was a little bizarre for me, after so long as ‘the youngest Miss Black’.” She picks up the cup again, fingers rubbing against the handle like it is a talisman. “Although now I suppose I shall become ‘the widow, Mrs Malfoy’. How things change.”

Harry fixes his gaze on his lap, dread rising its ugly head again. “Yes. Mrs Malfoy- I mean, Narcissa… I didn’t come here because of your husband. I- I’m very sorry about him, of course, but I didn’t know until I arrived. I…” He trails off, swallowing.

There’s a brief silence. Narcissa’s fingernails tap against the skin of the cup, harsh and loud in the quiet. A clock, somewhere in the house, ticks.

“My son.” She says, voice barely more than a whisper. “You came with news about my boy. Harry, please… please tell me without any twisted words. I want to be clear what has happened. Since he is not here himself, I’m afraid I’m starting to imagine the worst.”

“Narcissa…” Harry hates this. He hates this with a burning passion, but he has to do it because this was his fault, and these are the consequences. “Narcissa, Draco is dead.” He forces himself to meet her eyes at this.

She opens her mouth to respond, then closes it, blinking rapidly. Her fingers are tight on the cup. Harry’s scared it might break, shattering and falling apart, and he imagines for a moment that the cup is her heart.

“It was two days ago, in the morning.” He begins, heart in his throat. “The night before, I had… I cast a spell on Draco. I wanted to make him feel better, so I cast a spell to grant a wish of his. He wished for his D- Dark Mark to be gone, but something must have gone wrong because he-.... Narcissa, I didn’t mean for it to happen, I… He c-c-carved it out, and he died. I’m sorry. Merlin, I’m so sorry.” 

Trembling, he digs his teeth into his bottom lip, trying desperately not to cry. The shadows in the corners leer at him, whispering how it is his fault, how he’s so selfish to be crying. He did this, why should he be allowed to cry? Draco was Narcissa’s child, her only child who had protected her until his death, and she is the one with the right to cry over him. Not Harry.

“Harry-” Narcissa’s voice cracks. She’s pale, even paler than normal, if that is possible, and her face is so gaunt and tired that Harry fears she’s going to drop dead where she sits. “Harry, you… Thank you for telling me. I would like some time alone.”

“Of course.” He bites out immediately, standing and fumbling with his wand. “I’ll- I’ll just be leaving now. I’m sorry, Narcissa.”

She only nods, gripping her cup like a lifeline. Gobsy pops into existence next to her, as though sensing her distress, and gently rests a hand on her knee.

Leave, now. Harry only makes things worse by messing with other people’s business. Quick steps to the door, pushing aside a growing idea. Not now. She’s just lost both her husband and her son.

He can’t help himself.

“Narcissa, I can talk to the ministry for you.” He blurts out, spinning on his heel right in the doorway. “I can try to get you out of here. Grimmauld Place belongs to me now, and I’m sure Remus would like some help renovating it, since you would know all about the heirlooms, and it might be good for you. You can bring all of your house elves. There has to be enough space.”

Narcissa doesn’t look at him or respond, focused entirely on her teacup.

“The mistress would like that, mister Harry Potter, sir.” Gobsy croaks, managing a small smile.

Harry nods, searching his mind for something to say, but he comes up blank. Instead, he turns on his heel and scurries out, shadows and whispers chasing him to the gate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hello, Harry.”

“Hey, Luna.”

“You have a lot of wrackspurts in your head today.”

“Just a lot on my mind. Have you seen Ginny?”

“She says she doesn’t want to see you. I would tell you where she is, but she doesn’t like to be interrupted when she’s sending her letters from the owlery.”

“...”

“Oh. Uhm. Would you like to come and find some knotgrass with me? Pansy wants it to make a potion for Blaise.”

“I’m alright, I don’t think Pansy wants to see me either. I’ll see you around.”

“I suppose that’s fair, she did give you that broken nose. Bye, Harry.”

Harry sighs, turning away and trudging towards the lake. All he wants right now is to sleep, but he can’t bear the thought of walking inside his room. Too many reminders of draco lie around every part of the castle, even by the lake, but at least he won’t be disturbed there. In late december, not many students will be around outside to ogle him.

“Wait, Harry!”

He glances back at Luna, a wicker basket swinging from her arm. “Yeah?”

“Theo says he wanted to see you. Something about a book and fairy godmothers.”

The spell! He’d given the book to Theo that morning, before heading off to the Manor. How had he found something already?

“Thanks Luna!”

“You’re welcome! Careful, there’s a-”

“Ow.”

“...branch.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“What happened to your cheek?”

“Branch. Never mind that, what did you find?”

Theodore eyes him carefully, book open in front of him on Hagrid’s table. A single rock cake sits abandoned to the side, surrounded by multiple cold cups of tea and coffee.

“I’ve read up on the creator of the spell. It’s a witch named ‘Halosydne Vizzini’.” His dark brown eyes rest on Harry as though the name should mean something to him. It doesn’t.

“Who’s that?”

Theodore sighs. “We learnt about her in History. I know Binns is dull, but if you make a game out of his words, you can convince yourself to listen. In third year, us slytherins used to cast another mist charm word every time he said a date. By the end of class, we could usually barely see each other through the fog. I guess that’s why Draco could make those black letters so easily. He always made the darkest mist.”

Harry frowns, slotting the new information away. He wonders why he’d never heard of this before, considering he’s in the same year group. Then again, he did think he had a serial killer after him that year.

“Anyway.” Theodore shakes his head. “Vizzini was famous for creating grand spells that always went wrong if the slightest thing happened. Usually, a mispronounced word makes a spell puff out some smoke or not work at all. In Vizzini’s spells, a mispronounced word could send a building crumbling on top of the caster. You see how specific every part of this spell was? Some think she loved to be the only one who could cast her spells.”

“Yes, I know, the spell went wrong. What does this have to do with anything?”

“I’m getting to that.” Theo sighs, rolling his eyes. “Some say she eventually decided that other people were getting too good at casting her spells, and so she cursed the spells themselves. Unless the caster had her blood, the spell would fail. Only her descendants could undo the spell, too.”

“So…” Harry sits down heavily, hope crumpling. “What you’re saying is… There’s no way to undo it?”

“No, Harry, listen.” The other boy rubs his eyes frustratedly. “Only her descendants. After she died, her son felt guilty for all of the horrible results from backfiring spells. He wasn’t powerful enough to undo her work, but he found a way to change it. No one could truly die as a result of a spell backfiring. Instead, they would be sent to a safe place until he, her only descendant, could undo the spell. In time, people learned not to cast any of her spells, and so he stopped needing to save people and moved on.”

“Wait, wait- sent to a safe place? So Draco isn’t dead?” Harry's head is reeling.

“No. I suspect he was sent to Limbo.” Theo collapses into a chair, grabbing one of the cups and taking a sip, only to grimace at how cold it is. “And if we find a descendant of Vizzini’s son, we can get him back.”

Harry nods, closing his eyes to try and process that. Vizzini, mad spells, sent to a safe place, descendant to get them back. To get Draco back. “Theodore… does this mean we can save Draco?”

“This is all just rumour, you know, Binns made that very clear, but in theory… yes.”

Harry’s eyes fly open and he grins, hope swelling inside of him. “We can save Draco! From Limbo!”

Theodore picks up another cup, dipping his finger into it with a small smile and taking a sip. “Yes. We can save Draco.”

Relief fills Harry’s stomach as he repeats the words in his head. He didn’t kill Draco. He didn’t, because Draco can be saved, and the stupid spell and the blood and his blank eyes don’t mean anything because Draco can be saved, he can be alive, and his death won’t be on Harry’s hands. He can smile, and laugh, and live out the rest of his life, because they can save Draco. They can save him.

All he has to do is find Vizzini’s descendant.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Want a cigarette?” Theo speaks up after an hour of silence. He’s digging in his pocket, pulling out a packet that Harry vaguely recognises.

“Why do you have those?”

A white and brown stick emerges from the packet as Theo gives him an unimpressed look, one eyebrow raised. It almost rivals Draco’s. “To smoke? Merlin, Harry, Draco was right about you. You really aren’t the brightest glow worm.”

“Hey!” Harry punches Theo’s shoulder, who snickers. “I defeated Voldemort, you know. You can’t go around insulting the Saviour.” He doesn’t miss the way Theo flinches at the name, or the way his expression quickly schools itself into blankness.

“You did kill him using expelliarmus. Like, not even some awesome powerful spell. You chose expelliarmus.”

“I was under a lot of pressure!”

“In a hundred years time, they’re not gonna believe how much of an idiot you were, you know? Our grandkids are gonna think we were either lying about the spell you used, or just that we were complete idiots for praising you to the high heavens.”

“Praising me to the high heavens? I’d rather you do that, please.”

“In your dreams, Potter.” Theo mumbles as he lights up his cigarette, dropping the packet onto the table and turning to his books. “If you can find this asshole, maybe I will, actually.”

“We’ll find them. We have to.” Harry sighs, glancing out of the window. Hagrid is fast asleep behind them, rumbling snores undisturbed by their bickering, and the whole of Hogwarts seems to be asleep too. “How long do we have?”

“I don’t know.” Theo flips a page over. “I don’t know how this is going to work, whether he’ll go back to his body or create a new one.”

“I’m hoping for a new one. Imagine if he was left with… that.” Harry gestures at his forearm, grimacing. The image still haunts him whenever he closes his eyes, but the hope that Draco can come back stops him from panicking. He isn’t dead, not really.

“Trust me, Harry, having a huge gash in his arm will probably be better than having the Dark Mark.” Theo’s voice lowers at this, his own fingers rubbing at the fabric over his own arm. “It’s like a living thing in there.”

“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“You never think.” Theo snorts, and the somber mood lifts. “Look, there’s no use worrying about it now. What happens will happen, and we can’t change what happened in the past. Let’s just focus on this.”

“Right.” Harry nods, a puff of air escaping his lips.

Jarfin Kindlewald. DECEASED.

Prester Gohun. DECEASED.

Vincent Crabbe.

Harry stares at the name. Crabbe, Draco’s lackey, who died in the fiendfyre. He remembers Draco, tears running down his face, screaming that Harry should have saved Crabbe and not Draco.

Slowly, he writes DECEASED next to the name and carries on, hazily registering each DECEASED, each name passing by, until-

“Theodore!”

“Hm?” Theo glances up, flicking ash across the floor.

“Look, look!” Harry grabs the book and shoves it into Theo’s face, tapping one finger on the name.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t that a surprise.” Theodore tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at the book. “Then again, he has the same arrogant streak as Vizzini, even if he doesn’t have the same amount of power. You think he’s up to it?”

“He has to be. We don’t have a choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who is it? Can you guess?
> 
> Question time!
> 
> Which is your least favourite ship in the Harry Potter fandom?
> 
> Snape and Hermione. Do I even need to explain it? She's young enough to be his daughter. It's just creepy.


	28. Time is Ticking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, we're getting close (for the thousandth time) to the ending here. This chapter is a bit of a mash of things, but I didn't have a set plan in mind for this one, I just had to fill up an entire chapter without getting onto the big event of the next chapter.
> 
> We have loose ends, yes. So many loose ends. If you know a loose end that doesn't have to do with Draco becoming alive, please tell me. It's been a while since I started this, and I have forgotten pretty much 90% of what I have written.
> 
> Along with this, any questions, ideas, or random babbles are very much appreciated.
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

“So, you’re saying I’m descended from an incredibly powerful witch?”

“Yes.”

“And I’m your last hope for saving Draco?”

“Well, not exactly our last hope, but clo-”

“And I’m the only one who can wield the power to bring people back from the dead?”

“Limbo isn’t exactly death, but I guess you could-”

“Cool.” Blaise flashes white teeth in a grin, reclining back with the air of an emperor. “Well, I think that deserves some begging. Perhaps a little kneeling, a few gifts of diamonds, a small array of promises and blackmail material. Don’t you think, Pansy?”

“Hm.” Pansy raises an eyebrow noncommittally, not bothering to look over from where her and Hermione are working on… something. Harry isn’t quite sure. “As long as I get a new necklace, and a new Draco to do my hair for me. You’re useless at it.”

“I did your hair this morning!”

“Why do you think I took it out about five minutes ago?”

“You’re so cruel.” Blaise sighs, turning back to a hopeful Harry and Theo. “Alright, alright. Of course I’m going to do it. He is my best ‘bro’, after all.”

“Thank Merlin.” Theo mutters. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

“I would suggest that Potter pays for it, but he needs to send his money to dear Weasel Hair, who is buying wedding rings.” Blaise drawls, examining his nails.

“What?!” Hermione’s head flies up, eyes wide and panicked.

“Whoops.” Blaise sniggers, then tuts as Hermione’s breath hitches. “I’m joking, Front Teeth, no need to get your knickers in a twist. It’ll make them hard for Weaselbee to get off.”

Hermione’s face flames red as Pansy contains her snort of laughter. Harry shakes his head, trying not to get that image stuck in his head. “Blaise, please, let’s just go. We need to work out the specifics.”

“Was that a please? From our Lord and Saviour, the One Spell Wonder, the Boy Who Lived Twice, Harry James Potter?” Blaise presses a hand to his chest in mock surprise as he stands. “Never thought I’d see the day when our beloved scarhead would beg me.”

“I’m not begging- Oh, Merlin, come on.” Harry huffs, marching out of the room with Blaise trailing behind him.

He knows they don’t actually mean it. They’ve become a weird mesh of interconnected friends, so none of them can truly hate each other without offending one of their own friends. He may hate the way Blaise manages to rile him up, but when Ron plays chess with him every evening, it’s impossible to stay mad for long.

Besides, Draco’s yawning absence is always there, a huge black hole, an uneasy gap that makes them all a little too snappy and a little less wary of boundaries. He can forgive them until Draco is safe and back with them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They’re sat by the column again. Draco’s head in Sirius’ lap, tears dried up and sobs died down into the oppressive quiet of Limbo. He doesn’t think. His vision is webbed, blue waves rushing over his eyes at the harsh light, but he doesn’t care. He can’t care when he can’t think. He can’t feel sad or lonely or desperate if he can’t think.

“I’m sorry.” Sirius mutters from above him, fingers resting on his hair. He’d found Draco not long after his father had vanished, and had carefully led him over to a column, patting his back and trying to provide comfort despite having no idea why Draco was upset.

Draco shakes his head slightly. He doesn’t want to hear it. If he listens, he has to think. If he thinks, then he has to feel. So he doesn’t listen, and he doesn’t think, and he doesn’t feel the waiting surge of pain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Harry! I thought something had happened to you. I tried calling last night, and- oh. Hello you two.”

Harry, Theo, and Blaise stare at Remus’ head in the fireplace of Hagrid’s hut, who had left quickly after Blaise had entered. Harry was slightly disappointed by this, but he supposes Hagrid hasn’t had the chance to see Blaise like he has. Living in the same dormitories has given them all a chance to see each other at their worst and best.

“Should I call back later?”

“No, no, I think we’d actually like your help.” Harry slides his chair closer to the fireplace. “You know Vizzini?”

“The elder or younger?”

“Uhm…” Harry glances at Theo, who rolls his eyes.

“Both.”

“Ah, yes.” Remus nods. “Been a while since I heard that name. I’m pretty sure I had to explain them to Sirius at least six times.” His face turns wistful, and Harry feels that pit in his stomach again when he thinks of Sirius. The pain has dulled, but it is there.

Suddenly, he jolts up, eyes flaring wide open as a thought occurs to him. “Remus! You said Sirius might be in Limbo, right?”

Theo and Blaise exchange shocked looks as Remus nods. “Yes, they’re still trying to work it out. I’m sorry, Harry, I might have been a little too eager when I-”

“What if I told you we found a way to get people out of Limbo?”

Remus’ face turns uncertain, eyes flicking between the three of them. “How?”

“Harry, this was only for the spell-” Theo starts, worried, but Harry cuts him off, caught up in his own excitement.

“Vizzini’s son brought people out of Limbo. Blaise might be able to do that. He can get both Sirius and Draco out of there at the same time!”

“Wait- Draco’s in Limbo? How-”

“Theo, he can do that, right?” Harry turns to the anxious boy, his chest sparking in anticipation. “We can get them both out at the same time, and then we can all live in Grimmauld Place when we’re done.”

“Harry-”

“Oh, Remus, Narcissa might show up at your door, just a warning. It’ll be perfect! We’ll get one of Hermione’s therapists to cure Draco, and Narcissa will be fine away from the Manor-”

“Harry!”

“And Sirius will be alive and the house will be fixed and there’s enough bedrooms, probably, and then-”

“Harry!!!”

He stops, words stuck on the tip of his tongue as he stares at Remus. “What?”

“Why is Draco in Limbo?”

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it, confusion and dread jumbling together. “You don’t know? Haven’t you, uh, read a newspaper?”

“No.” Remus glances between them. “Kreacher tends to steal them when they arrive.”

“I- uhm…” Harry slumps in his chair. “Remus, I… I killed Draco. I didn’t mean to. It was a spell gone wrong, and I somehow sent him to Limbo, but Blaise is descended from Vizzini and so can fix it. It’ll be fine. It’ll work out. We can fix this.”

Remus’ face softens. “Oh, Harry…” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You are an asshole, and a dickhead, and a stupid murdering scumbag, but I’ll help you.” Pansy huffs, throwing a piece of paper at him. “My family funds some of the Unspeakables’ experiments. Call that number, tell them you’re a Parkinson, and they might let you in. Don’t you dare say who you really are. I don’t think they’ll ever forgive you for destroying half of their rooms, killer of the Dark Lord or not.”

“Thanks, Pansy.” Harry takes the paper, stuffing it in his pocket. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You better.” She sniffs, lifting her nose. “Bring Draco back, or I’ll make sure your nose stays broken next time.”

He winces, hurriedly turning to leave before a thought hits him. “Hey, Pans?”

“Number one, don’t call me that ever again. Number two, what is it?”

He shakes his head, brushing aside the first comment. “Why do all of the Slytherins call him the Dark Lord? You weren’t a Death Eater.”

“Learned habits, I suppose.” She shrugs. “And I’m not going to start making my friends freak out by saying his name. He may be dead, but his sickness still carries on tormenting a lot of people.”

“Sickness?” Harry stares at her, remembering Gobsy’s wobbling speech. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you feel it, sometimes?” She shivers. “Some magic leaves a trace. Mine, not so much. Blaise’s, yours, Draco’s, Dumbledore’s, the Dark Lord’s - anyone’s that holds a little more power than the rest of us. I’m betting yours could infect people too, if you let it.”

Harry frowns at the thought, a little disturbed. It’s the same feeling he had when he learned his wand was Voldemort’s wand’s twin.

“Anyway, I’m getting morbid.” She snorts. “Vold- Voldemort was just a guy who happened to be both twisted and powerful. It probably doesn’t mean anything. Uhm, while we’re on the subject…”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry for being an asshole and saying you should have been given to him. Even if it turns out you’re a clabbert’s pustule and deserved it. I was being selfish and a bit of a bitch. See you!”

She breezes past him, leaving her sudden apology hanging in the air. Harry smiles. Turns out people can be nice, if you give them the chance. Well, sort of nice, if calling him a clabbert’s pustule right after apologising counts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Luna smiles at the tiny house elf, all rough edges and paint splotches. “Hello.”

It waves a tiny hand back at her, scrambling to hang onto a huge letter S as she picks the paper up.

“What’s your name?”

“This house elf don’t have a name, miss.” The little thing squeaks.

“I’ll call you… Jaebo.” She hums, sitting by the fireplace.

The common room is empty for once, most people out to help Harry and Theo or to arrange Narcissa’s move. With all of the pressure from them and their families, the ministry is bound to relent at some point. Luna would like to help, but she’s in the younger year, and Hermione insists they focus on their lessons.

“Jaebo is happy to have a name, miss.”

Luna smiles, setting Jaebo down on the coffee table. The animals painted on the walls start to gather around, eager for attention too. “Hello, hello, hello. Oh, snakey, you look especially shiny today!”

The snake slithers in a circle with a pleased hiss.

“Jaebo is wondering what the miss’ name is?” The house elf waves a hand up at her, eyes wide. Whoever had drawn him didn’t quite get the eyes symmetrical, more wonky, although that could be on purpose.

“Luna. Luna Lovegood.” She says, reaching out to pet the lion’s head. “How old are you, Jaebo?”

“Only around thirteen days, Miss Luna.” He pipes, now sitting on top of a T. “How old is miss? If you don’t minds me asking.”

“Seventeen years old.” She says, watching the house elf’s eyes widen. “Not as old as some paintings around here. Would you like to meet some?”

“Jaebo can’t leaves, miss.” The house elf shakes its head sadly. “Jaebo has to stay, or poster will be thrown away. Miss Pansy says so, she does. ‘If this house elf weren’t here, this poster would be terrible. I’d have to get rid of it’.” He mimics Pansy’s voice.

“Did Pansy paint you?”

“No, missus, Miss Pansy not a painter, she says.”

“Was it Hermione?”

“Miss Luna, Miss Hermione drew these letters, here. Not Jaebo.”

Luna hums, thinking. “Was it… Draco?”

“Master Draco, yes, yes. Poked Jaebo awake, he did. Nasty wand poking Jaebo.” Jaebo grumbles, rubbing his side.

Luna pulls her wand from behind her ear and starts fiddling with it. Draco had never told her he could make paintings real. It’s a skill most wizards and witches struggle their whole lives to do. Only a rare few are born with the natural potential, and even fewer of those can paint well. It’s why moving paintings are such an expensive, rare thing. Most people use photographs these days.

Ah, well. She’ll have to ask him about it when he’s alive again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two days later, and Narcissa stands outside of Grimmauld Place, Gobsy and her house elves separating her and the three Aurors they sent to escort her. As if she needs it. Most days she feels too tired to walk, let alone try to escape the country.

“Thank you, kind aurors.” She smiles at them politely, noting the way they glance at each other apprehensively. “I appreciate the time you took out of your busy schedule to escort me. I’m sure our community will be proud to hear you’ve been taking me from one place to another when these so-called ‘vigilantes’ are still at large.”

She couldn’t help herself. She can suffer through everything they do with a smile, but she will be damned if she’s going to keep her mouth shut. They murdered her husband, and let hate spread so far her son was killed in the mess. Slipping in a few bitter remarks is all she can do about it.

“Mrs Malfoy.”

She turns, preparing herself with a deep breath. Mr Lupin stands at the top of the stairs, door open into the house. Her house, by right, if that Sirius Black hadn’t handed it on to Harry. She can’t be bitter about it, she should be glad the boy has a place to go. 

“Mr Lupin.” She curls her lips upward into a stiff smile. “A pleasure to see you.”

“Come on in.” He steps to one side, eying the aurors as they watch her ascend. Like she’s going to suddenly turn around and kill them all. Ridiculous.

The door closes behind her, and they wait for a few seconds until there is the familiar crack of apparition.

“I’ll get you some tea. The living room is a little empty at the minute, there was a lot of… there was a lot in there.” He gestures to a door which she glides through, sitting gracefully on a sofa. The house elves bundle through the house after Lupin as he heads to the kitchen, all except Gobsy, who stands behind her.

“Sit, Gobsy. We’re both guests here.” She sighs, patting the seat beside her. The house has changed from what she remembers, although she supposes that is the point. Ridding the house of the remnants of her family is entirely why she is here.

“How is miss feeling?” Gobsy blinks up at her as he slips onto the seat. Poor creature. He’s an incessant worrier, perhaps verging on paranoid. She doesn’t blame him; having the Dark Lord in the same house as you does that to a creature.

“I am feeling quite alright.” She reassures him, and for once, it edges on the truth. If she ignores the crushing despair of losing her son, and the black hole in her heart at losing her husband, and the crawling loneliness of only having house elves for company, she does feel lighter.

Lupin walks in a couple of minutes later, looking slightly exasperated as her house elves parade over a tray with tea made just how she likes it. They slide it onto the coffee table, then pop away again.

“Sorry.” Lupin sighs, sinking into an armchair. “I would have made it myself, but they just kept insisting…”

“It is alright.” She smiles. “They need to feel useful.”

“Don’t we all.”

There are a few moments of tense silence where Gobsy pours out two cups, handing them to their respective owners.

“How have you been?” She begins, sipping from the cup.

“Good.” Lupin nods, watching the liquid swirl as he moves his cup. “Busy. How about you?”

“Not so busy, regretfully.” She laughs quietly, instinctively. “There is not much to do in the Manor. Although, I suppose there will be much to do soon.”

“How so?” Lupin glances up at her, as though he doesn’t know, as though it hasn’t been splashed over every newspaper in the UK.

“The funerals.” She says plainly, pausing to sip again before continuing. “Sorting out the wills, planning the ceremonies, editing the family line, adjusting my own will… There is a lot to do when the remainders of your family die.”

“Oh.” Lupin stares intently at his tea, silence washing over them again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Are we ready?” Harry glances around the group. “Is this it? Is the plan finally done?”

“I think so.” Theo nods, face as flat as ever. Harry has learnt, over the past few days, that this usually means he is scared, or angry. “I mean- I know so. This is it.”

“Are you sure you should do this, Harry?” Hermione looks at him nervously. “What if you don’t have enough-”

“He does. He killed the Dark Lord with expelliarmus, for Merlin’s sake.” Blaise snorts.

“Should we bring Mrs Malfoy?” Pansy glances around at them all. “He is her son.”

“Nah.” Ron frowns, shifting between his feet. “Imagine if it didn’t work. She’d be even more crushed.” He exchanges a glance with Harry. “Losing a son once is bad enough.”

“I’ll bring Jaebon.” Luna taps her pocket. “He’ll want to see a familiar face.”

They all pause, staring at Luna.

“...I’m not even going to ask.” Blaise mutters.

“Anyway.” Harry catches their attention again. “This is it. Everyone know what they’re doing?”

They all nod, except for Luna, who’s now whispering to her pocket.

“Great. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And today's recommended writer is... Gwendee! For anyone who loves the very niche fanfictions of Asano Gakushuu from Assassination Classroom, gwendee is the perfect person to follow. There's everything from mildly traumatic distress to hilariously over-the-top reactions. Best of all, the characterisation is so believable and entirely human (well, human as in human emotions... there is supernatural Gakushuu thrown in there).
> 
> Question time!
> 
> If you could only cast one spell from the wizarding world, what would it be?
> 
> Imperius. Yes, it's a dark spell that you're not legally supposed to cast, but controlling people? That has to be the best spell there. Maybe it's just my moral ambiguosity, but it sounds like imperius could pretty much let you do whatever you want, all of the time.


	29. Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can guess what this chapter will be about. It's been a long time coming, but... here we are. I've stuffed as much as I could into this, although I may have forgotten a few things which will be addressed in later chapters, so if anyone notices something that I've hinted in earlier chapters but never explained, please tell me!
> 
> As usual, any ideas or questions or random babbles are always appreciated!
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

The Veil stands before them, rippling and whispering, the stench of magic so strong that Blaise has to cover his nose. It’s not like other magical smells; there’s a mash of scents, of different people’s magic battling each other for domination. He can smell the Malfoy’s magic, and the Black’s magic, and Potter’s magic, and a whole host of other unrecognisable ones.

How on earth is he supposed to fight that?

“Merlin.” Pansy mutters from next to him, pressing her scarf over her nose. She has her wand in hand, ready to intervene in case everything goes wrong. Hermione insisted she wasn’t needed, but she came anyway. Draco is her best friend, closer to him than anyone else had been.

The Unspeakables surround them, ready to record and monitor the ‘extraction’, as they called it. Blaise can’t help but feel like a lab rat, sacrificed for some greater good that he has no choice to die for.

Except he won’t die. He can do this. If some old wrinkly ancestor of his can do it, then surely he can save one measly soul.

“Remember, it’s like reaching out a hand.” Theo calls from behind him, notes and books on the table in front of him. They’d gone over this hundreds of times in the last few days, so neither he nor Hermione truly needed to be there. Still, if it comforted them to keep reminding him of what he had to do, he’d put up with them.

“I think there might be more people in there.” Luna peers into the wispy gauze of magic, the closest person to it.

“Ignore them.” Ron shakes his head. “We only need the stupid blonde git, right?” He glances at Harry, who holds onto Blaise’s wrist. No, it isn’t for support. That’s unnecessary, Blaise doesn’t need support. Theo insisted he do it, to make the transfer easier.

“Right.” Harry bites his lip, finger tapping rapidly against his leg. Nerves. Blaise supposes even the Saviour of the Wizarding World gets nervous. At least Blaise is keeping up a calm front, chin tilted up and waves of arrogance flowing from him. Arrogance gets the job done. Nerves don’t.

“Ok, everyone ready?” Hermione calls.

Blaise looks around as each of them nod. “On the count of three.”

He steels himself, closing his eyes.

“One.”

Blaise reaches inside himself, feeling for that tingling well of magic.

“Two.”

He draws it out, carefully dragging only the purest parts into himself.

“Three.”

Thrusting out the magic, he envisions it like a hand, and reaches out towards the whispering concoction of intertwined magic. There’s some startled muttering and scratching of quills behind him from the Unspeakables, but he drowns it out to concentrate, scowling. The Veil hisses eagerly as the hand delves into it, shifting through the clawing magic to search for the distinct Draco inside there.

“Like cold cream, remember? Cold cream and liquid strawberry.” Pansy mutters beside him. “Can you feel it?”

Cream, cream, cold cream… and strawberry. There! He grabs the faint trace of magic, Draco’s magic, and tugs.

“Hey! I think I see something!” Harry gasps.

It resists slightly, confusion souring the cream and dragging out the coldness, a musty scent of moldy parchment stinging his hand. Blaise can feel his forehead dampening, the strain of battling with pure magic making him sweat. 

“That’s it! Keep going! Keep pulling!” Theo encourages behind him, voice breathless.

“I’m trying.” Blaise hisses, yanking harder. Come on, Draco, he thinks, recognise me. Come on!

Draco’s magic is losing the battle, but the effort is leaving Blaise weakened. He pulls, and pulls, and inch by inch the hand hauls both of them back towards him.

“I see him! Draco!”

Pull. Pull. Pull.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There’s a tugging in Draco’s chest. He sits up, startled.

“Draco?” Sirius frowns, watching him.

He gestures to his chest, letting out a choked gasp as the tug becomes a yank.

“What is it?” He stares down at Draco’s chest, then back up at his face. “I don’t see anything.”

The next tug brings him to his feet, and suddenly he can see a doorway ahead of him. Wavering, whispering, gauzy and faint, but definitely an arch to somewhere.

Is this it? Is this death?

He doesn’t want to die. He might be already dead, but he doesn’t want to go, not yet. He wants to wait here for his mother, however long that takes.

“Draco?” Sirius looks alarmed, scrambling to his feet. “What’s going on?”

Tug. Tug. Tug. Draco shakes his head, trying to step back and pull against the force. Is this one of those gods the muggles are obsessed with? Were they right all along?

Perhaps they were, because this force is stronger than him. His heels dig into the ground as he’s towed forwards, towards the arch. No, no, he doesn’t want to die.

Sirius tries grabbing his hand, eyes wide, and Draco clings back as though Sirius is his last lifeline. Which he is, Draco supposes. This thought makes him grip tighter, a whimper escaping his throat.

It doesn’t help. He keeps being dragged, Sirius pulled along with him, until he’s right in front of the door and the whispering becomes a scream.

“Draco! Your- your foot!” Black yelps, staring at Draco’s foot which is sticking through the veil.

He can’t die. He can’t die, he can’t die, he can’t! His breath hitches, body desperately kicking and pulling away from his death. He can see someone in there, multiple people, milky faces staring through and waiting for him to join them.

In a last ditch effort, he turns around and wraps his arms around Black’s torso, clinging to him for all he’s worth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Something’s wrong. There’s another magic there, something familiar but not quite, wrapping around Draco’s magic and resisting Blaise’s increasingly weak attempts.

“Something- There’s something there!” He bites out, teeth gritted and sweat dripping down his face.

“What do you mean?” Pansy questions, a breath of air passing over his soaked skin as she turns to him.

“I don’t-” He has to cut himself off as the haul comes to a standstill, both Draco’s and the mysterious newcomer’s magic halting his progress.

“Use mine. Blaise, now!” Harry mutters beside him, hand tightening on his wrist.

“But it’s not time, yet!” Theo says, hurrying forward and leaving Hermione to shuffle through notes. “He needs to be fully through before your magic is needed to break the spell. If you use your magic up now, he’ll stay a ghost when he comes through!”

“I have enough!” Harry shouts, breaking Blaise’s concentration for a second. “I have enough magic to do it both! Blaise, now! Now!”

“Don’t!” Theo growls. 

“Blaise! Do it!”

“You can’t!”

“You have to!”

“Harry doesn’t have-”

“I have enough! I have enough, I swear! Blaise!”

“Shut up!” Blaise roars, magic sparking and flicking from the well, his frustration and annoyance rearing up and latching onto anything close by. Including Harry’s magic.

And suddenly it’s like he’s filled with power, a tsunami of new magic flooding his system and flowing to his hand, which gives one final jerk and rips both of them out of the Veil and onto hard stone. His eyes fly open, as he doesn’t need to concentrate with this influx of strength, and he sees pale skin and pale hair, lying beside dark hair and dark eyes.

“Sirius?” Harry breathes from next to him, the new magic wavering.

Luna darts over to the two of them, sweeping her wand in a circle and muttering words. A large blue bubble surrounds the two of them, rippling when they move.

“The spell! Quickly!” Theo shouts, catching Blaise’s attention.

Right. The spell. Blaise dips deeper into the ocean of might, winding it around the bubble as he starts reciting the words. He can see it now, with his eyes open, the wave of pure liquid magic streaming from him. It’s beautiful. It feels incredible. His soul is suspended in a galaxy of sparkling magic, and he never wants to come down. He can do anything with it.

Harry’s hand starts trembling around Blaise’s wrist. He doesn’t care. He draws deeper, further, wrapping the bubble into a cocoon as words flow from his lips. When he finishes, he stabs the bubble, watches it burst, watches the magic fly to the two people inside, revels in the feeling of holding two living beings in the palm of his hand.

With this, he could tear them apart. He could separate their atoms, one by one, and put them back together again. He’s almost tempted, until he feels the natural reversal of the spell call over something dark and twisted that winds itself around Draco’s arm, ready to complete the undoing of the spell fully.

The Dark Mark. He hates it. He can feel how poisonous it is, sense when it creeps up to Draco’s head and slides inside his brain. He wants it gone.

So he gets rid of it.

A hand, clawing out the darkness even as Draco’s high scream fills the air, even as Harry slumps down beside him. He drags out more power, more energy, crushing the darkness in a fist, shattering it and banishing it completely. There. All gone.

Now what? The two people are still wrapped in Harry’s magic - his magic, now - and he can either sink it into their skin to make them alive, or he could experiment, play a little. There’s not enough magic for both.

“Blaise?”

That voice is familiar. He isn’t used to hearing it so unsure, but it is familiar. He turns, using a small tendril of magic to poke at the girl beside him, staring at him. She should stare. He is incredible, in this moment, a powerful deity that they should bow to. Why isn’t she bowing?

“Blaise, you can stop now.” Pansy reaches out a hand hesitantly, face worried.

He doesn’t like to see her worried. He wants to see her smile. Does she not like this?

“Finish the spell, please.” 

Begging, now. They should all beg. He is powerful. He is far above them. He could set fire to this world and build it anew.

Perhaps he should do as she asks, though, for now. With a wave of his hand, the magic sinks into the two people and they fall to the ground.

He only has a little left. Still, he could whisk the source of the magic away from here with that, let him recharge, and consume again.

“Ron, break the connection. Slice it like butter, remember?” A boy says near him, the other one who had been shouting before. He doesn’t like him. He doesn’t like what he says even more. He should shut up.

Reaching out a hand, he makes to silence him when a flash of ginger interrupts him. The weasel raises his wand, looking scared shitless, and yells something.

No. No, no, no - he can feel it like an amputated arm, the power shrinking away from him and back to the source. Desperately, he reaches his own weak power after it, but it slips through his grasp and then-

Blaise blinks, wobbling on his feet as he stares at the mess of people around him, who stare back. 

“Pansy?”

She takes his arm gently, looking relieved. “Yes?”

“Catch me.”

And then he slips away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Draco watches hazily as Blaise drops like a stone into Pansy’s arms, the brilliant light gone from his eyes and hands. He isn’t dead. His arm and head ache like hell, but he isn’t dead. He isn’t dead!

He giggles, scrambling to his feet and patting himself down. He isn’t dead!

“Draco?”

There he is, the stupid green-eyed prick, the one whose kiss Draco can still feel on his forehead. An inexplicable joy fills him, burning brighter than he has ever felt before. He isn’t dead (he’s alive!) and he’s staring at the foolish handsome face that makes his heart soar and merlin, he loves him so so so much, and so maybe his future self will forgive him when he leaps forward and wraps his arms (his clear, smooth, unmarked arms) around the absolute dickhead and smashes his lips against his.

There’s a startled pause. Then strong arms envelop him, press their bodies closer, and he’s kissing him back - he’s kissing him back! - and Draco doesn’t even process the shocked noises around them because his heart is on fire and he’s alive alive alive alive alive alive!

He’s breathless when Harry (who kissed him, he kissed him because he likes Draco too, and he isn’t alone) pulls back, adrenaline ripping through his veins and leaving him weak in the knees, clutching Harry (Harry Harry Harry) like he’s the only person there.

“Hi.” The dickhead says, like an absolute idiot.

Draco grins at him, mind full of (iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou) racing thoughts. He chokes on his words, so much to say and not enough time to say it, and all that flies from him in smoke (white smoke?) is ‘Hi’, because he’s an equally absolute idiot.

And yes, maybe his future self will be cursing him to the high heavens, but he had to do it, and he doesn’t regret it one bit right now, even when they both fall to the floor in a mess of exhausted limbs, giggling madly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woop! Finally, the ship is happening! It's only taken a total of twenty nine full chapters...
> 
> Question time!
> 
> When this is over, I will be taking a small break from large fics to gather ideas and make a plan for a new one. However, if you've read 'You're Going To Poke Someone's Eye Out', you'll see I've been thinking of writing a story of Gakushuu (from Assassination Classroom) going to Hogwarts. This will include Draco, however Gakushuu will be the centre of the story. I realise not many other people will know AC well enough to be interested in this, so should I:
> 
> a) Write a lot of short one-chapter fics during that time
> 
> b) Begin a new story centred on Draco (if you prefer this, I would love some new ideas if you have them)
> 
> c) Not do much with Draco, just finish the Gakushuu one so another long Draco one can start soon after
> 
> d) Change the story so both Gakushuu and Draco are the main characters (this may make it longer)
> 
> Any other suggestions are greatly appreciated, I'd hate to leave you with nothing from me to read for the duration of the fic.


	30. A New Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will respond to your comments, I swear I will, but the last week or so has been a bit of a rough patch and I haven't done much at all. I only actually wrote the majority of this chapter today. My mood is improving rapidly, ignoring the lack of sleep last night, so I should be back on schedule and writing out new stuff soon.
> 
> All of your ideas were amazing! You've given me such inspiration that I think I might do draco-centric fics during my large gakushuu-centric fic, and I'll probably be keeping them to about 10 to 15 chapters each, just so my motivation doesn't run itself dry.
> 
> Any ideas, questions, or random babbles are always appreciated, especially if you've seen something in earlier chapters that I haven't explained.
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

When he wakes up, the hospital ward is quiet. His body aches with the foreign magic running through him, the smell of wet grass and broomstick polish intermingling with Blaise’s scent of fine wine and honey. He won’t be able to shake it off. It’s part of him now, as deeply cut into his body as the dark mark had been. 

Speaking of…

His forearm is pale marble, a long jagged scar searing down where the black mass used to be. Draco stares at it, lifting his fingers of his other hand to trace down the strange line. They told him what had happened, with uncomfortable glances away from his arm. He doesn’t blame them. When the flashbacks came, he almost threw up.

(Blank stare, hissed words, hate and loathing slamming the magic down onto his arm, blood and pain rearing their ugly heads, the shard of mirror slicing and slicing, wand crushed under the anger of his self-mutilation-)

So, yeah, he wasn’t surprised that they couldn't look at his new scar.

Harry is a different matter. There’d been a long silence when he said he didn’t understand how he did that, how he didn’t think he had the guts. Harry had killed him. Accidentally, but… he had died because of Harry.

(“I’m sorry.” His green eyes were wet, voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to. I thought you might- I thought it would help. I’m so sorry.”)

He would have been angry, would still be angry, if his giddiness at being alive and suddenly so free wasn’t whizzing through his mind still. Later, he knows, the full weight of his manslaughter will come down on him and leave him breathless and furious. He wishes his emotions weren’t so unpredictable.

(‘Harry, stop.’ White smoke, still new to him, and hard to conjure without his poor wand. ‘I understand. You did something stupid to try and make me happy. I’ve done a lot worse, I think I can forgive you for one stupid mistake. I’m alive, right?’)

Black is on his left side, snoring away in the tangle of blankets on his bed. He hadn’t managed to stay on his feet for long, considering the ecstatic welcome he’d received from Harry and his friends. Even Lupin had showed up mere minutes after the message had been sent to him, hugging and crying and laughing in a mad mix as Black had patted his back with an overwhelmed expression.

And Draco’s mother…

Her sewing rests in her lap, head resting back against the armchair she’s sat in on his right. Someone’s put a cushion under her head, letting her sleep without acquiring a painful neck once she wakes. Small mercies, really. He hadn’t been quite sure what to do when she’d appeared not long after Lupin, eyes wide and disbelieving. She’d thought he was gone for good. That hurts more to him than the occasional stab of pain in his arm, or the flashbacks. All his life, he’s tried to protect her from all of that, whether it be waving a stick at imaginary monsters or working to kill his headteacher so the Dark Lord wouldn’t hurt her.

In the end, he should have just stopped himself slipping so far.

“Master Draco?” There’s a small voice behind him, like a house elf’s, except why would there be a house elf in the hospital ward?

He turns and- He’s completely wrong. There is a house elf in the hospital ward, staring up at him from a piece of paper on his bedside table.

“Master Malfoy, sir, you should calls the nice Madam Pomfrey. Your face be very pale!” The drawing squeaks - his drawing, the drawing he’d done for S.P.E.W., the drawing that’s now talking and moving around.

He can only stare, shock rendering him immovable.

“My name be Jaebo, Master Draco.” It says after a moment of silence. “Miss Luna says Jaebo should speaks to you about being alive. Tis very strange, sir.”

Alive. He- He drew… Jaebo… and now Jaebo is alive. Draco may be a little frazzled, but he’s not stupid; he knows what this means.

‘Jaebo.’ He draws out, smoke faint and blurred from shock and exhaustion. ‘Did I make you like this? Am I’ At this point, the smoke fades out, his magic (Harry’s magic, Blaise’s magic) too turbulent to keep it up.

“A painter maker, sir.” The house elf finishes for him. “Did Master Draco not know he was one, sir?”

He shakes his head, feeling a little faint. How could he have never realised? Did he never doodle something and see it move? Then again, he was far too busy trying not to die to doodle lately, and the skill tends to come out around the age of sixteen. He’s read a few books on it.

“Well, since Jaebo be alive, sir, Master Draco must be a moving painter maker!” Jaebo smiles, throwing his tiny arms in the air and doing a little jig. “Jaebo be Master Draco’s first moving painting! Jaebo feels so happy!”

Draco can only helplessly nod, watching the small figure dance around the paper. What a mad turn of events.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry points his wand at the glass and pulls. Nothing happens.

“Accio!” He yells, giving in to having to use words.

The glass teeters, then falls over and smashes on the ground. Not so much as a single shard comes flying towards him.

“Give it up.” Blaise drawls from the corner, nose buried in a newspaper. “It’s gone. Kaput. Flown out the window. Buried itself in a hole and died there.”

“It can’t be!” Harry hisses, annoyance rising at Blaise’s apparent disregard for the fact that his magic just isn’t working anymore. “It can’t have just shrivelled up, that’s not how magic works!”

“Harry, that was a rather large spell.” Hermione sighs from where she and Pansy are arranging Draco’s present. “Your magic probably just needs time to recharge, get back to normal. Pushing it won’t help.”

“I can’t just leave it alone, though!” Harry kicks at the shards of glass, then turns to glare at Blaise’s newspaper, since he can’t see his face. “This is all your fault. If you hadn’t used so much of my magic, I wouldn’t be-”

“Harry.” Remus’ sharp voice cuts in as he enters, papers clenched in his hand. “That’s enough. It’s no one’s fault. Draco and Sirius are back with us, this isn’t the time to start attacking each other for helping them. If he hadn’t used your magic, they would still be dead.”

Harry stalls, dropping his head and letting shame push down the frustration. “Sorry. Is it going well?”

Remus shakes his head, dropping into an armchair. They’d all congregated in the eighth year common room, the rest of their year group migrating to their rooms so they can have some peace. Remus and McGonagall are in the process of madly trying to convince the ministry to not let the newspapers grab hold of the story whilst also trying to agree how best to handle the situation with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. All in all, it's been a hectic night.

“They keep saying that they need to hold a trial for Sirius, since he was never officially cleared of his crimes, and the fact that we know that slimeball Pettigrew did it apparently doesn’t change that. He can’t have a trial now, he’s only just become alive again.” Remus rubs the bridge of his nose tiredly. “I think they just want a reason to make use of their court system. All that investment after the war, all of the money spent reforming the system, and they’ve barely used it since the Death Eater trials. Dragging up a dead case through the system will stop people complaining that they should have spent the money elsewhere.”

“Or they could be looking for a reason to lock him up.” Hermione adds. “People will be angry that they put dementors near their children for an entire year to stop a criminal who, as it turns out, isn’t actually a criminal. There was widespread panic when he escaped Azkaban, and finding out it was all for nothing - most people won’t be impressed. If they lock him up now, they can say they were right all along.”

“Good point.” Remus nods at her. “I just hope that they decide to drop it and keep this on the down-low. I don’t want to have him back only to drop him straight back in there again.”

“Look, what’s done is done.” Pansy throws her hands up, rolling her eyes. “Frankly, I think we should be focusing more on the fact that they’re alive. They’re alive! I don’t give a shit about whether or not the ministry hates us - that part should be obvious, considering the fact we’ve brought an ex-Death Eater back to life. They can’t lock Black away for something he didn’t do. We have proof he didn’t do it. So maybe you lot should be helping with the presents instead of moping about!”

“Yes.” Hermione nods fervently, turning back to her work. “Pansy is right. Remus, you and McGonagall can get through to them, I know it. The rest of us can just leave it up to them. Come on, you two, there’s some wrapping paper you can be working with…”

Harry huffs, sparing the shattered glass a glance before moving to help. Recharge, that’s what Hermione says. Harry can’t help but think that this is his punishment from some higher power for daring to mess with fate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hello!” Black calls from beside him, watching as the group of people swarm into the wing with two wrapped boxes. “Is that food? Merlin, please say it is, I’m starving!”

A chuckle ripples through them all as they surround them. Poppy is eying the hoard with an unimpressed look, but she doesn’t move to shoo them out like usual. Apparently coming back from the dead has its perks.

“We wanted to give you both a ‘welcome back’ present.” Hermione announces, stood in the gap between their beds. “Hopefully they’ll give you something to do until you’re well enough to go out again.”

Draco remembers in third year, when he’d sat in the bed opposite him, accepting piles of sweets from all of his friends in Slytherin, and those friends with his family. Now his bedside only holds a single chocolate box from his mother, who sits with his hand in hers and a small smile on her face.

“Here.” Harry pushes forwards, giving the boxes to their respective people. To Black, he grins as he passes it over, receiving a vigorous hair ruffle in return. To Draco, he smiles in an awkwardly shy but hopeful way, cheeks flushing as Draco returns it. Draco’s heart does a little flip at the expression, mind racing with ‘how could I ever deserve that face’.

There’s a few moments of joking as the two struggle with the tightly packed wrapping paper (“Why did you put three layers on one box Hermione?” “I just had to make sure it wouldn’t fall apart!”) and then Black finally gets his open, revealing two books.

“Reading? Afraid I don’t know the word.” Black sniggers, examining them.

“Idiot.” Remus sighs fondly. “You love motorcycles and pranks. I don’t know what you’re complaining about. Besides, you should open it and start reading if you’re going to make a judgement on it.”

Black shrugs, flicking the first one open. Abruptly, blue smoke floods across the open page, swirling into an image, until a fully fledged motorcycle forms on the page, driving around by itself in the air as a voice bursts out. Draco narrows his eyes at the smoke as the voice starts narrating the history and parts of the vehicle, and… yes. It’s the smoke he uses, the one they all learnt in third year to pay attention in history classes.

‘Smoke?’ He draws out, looking between them.

“It was my idea.” Harry grins. “Theo told me about it, so Blaise helped Pansy cast it before we wrapped the books. I would have asked you, but that would have spoiled the surprise.”

Draco frowns slightly. When had Harry been speaking to Theodore? Did… did they get together after Draco died? Is that why Harry hasn’t talked to him about the kiss yet? Oh Merlin. His stomach clenches, nausea setting in. He was such an idiot to do that! In front of everyone! They’re probably all laughing at him, being so stupid, knowing that he doesn’t have a chance with Harry because - because, well, he’s Harry bloody Potter!

“It’s amazing, Harry.” Black closes the book, eyes wide. “Honestly, you could make a business selling books like this.”

“Draco?” Luna drifts to stand next to his bed, spiralling gold earrings clinking with the movement. “Are you going to open yours?”

Smiling weakly, he turns back to the half-unwrapped box, trembling fingers ripping away more. What if it’s just a sign saying ‘I don’t want to date you’ from Harry? What if it’s a little more subtle, like a poem about an ignorant peasant who falls in love with a prince, and ignores every sign that the prince actually hates him?

He can’t do this. Merlin, he can’t open it and find out that he’s too late, or never had a chance at all. The forehead kiss was for the damn spell, it didn’t mean anything, and he kissed Harry in front of all of these people, all of his friends, when Harry didn’t want to be kissed.

“Draco?” Harry’s smile falls, all eyes on Draco as he stops, fingers shaking over the last piece of paper. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head quickly, blinking back tears as he moves to tear off the last piece. He knows he isn’t good enough for the Saviour, knows all that faces him is rejection, so he might as well be brave in the face of his own destruction.

White material shines back at him. Confused, he pulls the last of the paper off, and stares at the blank canvas and painting set. What does this mean? Is the blank canvas supposed to signify that he and Harry don’t have a future together?

“Do you like it?” Luna sits on his bed, gazing at him hopefully.

“Master Draco can paint more peoples like Jaebo!” Jaebo squeals from the table, waving his arms to catch Draco’s attention.

The group looks startled, all except Luna, and gather around closer to stare at the tiny house elf drawing.

“Hey, that’s our poster for… Didn’t you draw that, Draco?” Pansy asks, eyes wide and shocked as she turns to him.

He nods slowly. Maybe he was overthinking this. Harry doesn’t have the capacity to be as subtle as this in rejecting him, and that saving-people-thing is too deeply ingrained into him to humiliate Draco in front of all of these people. He’ll wait until later, reject Draco in private.

“Hello Jaebo.” Luna smiles softly.

“Hello Miss Luna! I be Master Draco’s firstest ever moving picture!” Jaebo beams.

“You can paint moving pictures?” Remus gasps.

Draco nods again, raising his hands hopelessly to indicate he has no idea either.

“That’s why I recommended the painting set and canvas.” Luna clarifies, looking at the rest of them. “I told you he did very excitable artwork.”

“I thought you meant ‘exciting’.” Hermione shakes her head, one hand pressed to her temple. “This is giving me a headache.”

“My great aunt, Cassiopeia, was able to do that too.” Black calls from behind the swarm of people. “Maybe I can give you hints from when I saw her do it. It’s a shame she died six years ago.”

“Right! That’s enough!” Poppy bustles over. “You’ve given your presents and had a nice chat, but these two need rest! Only two visitors each!”

Grumbling, the group depart, leaving Draco, Black, his mother, Remus, and Harry alone.

“It’s lovely to see how many friends you have.” Draco’s mother says softly, carding her fingers through his hair. “It’s more than I could have hoped for. You’ve come a long way, darling.”

He smiles gently at her, heart swelling at her praise. It feels like a lifetime ago that he lay in the Manor, unable to move or eat, rotting away in his thoughts.

“Narcissa, we should head out for some food.” Remus suggests, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You haven’t eaten yet.”

“Just a few more minutes, please.” Her expression tightens, hand dropping from Draco’s head.

“We can come back after.” Remus insists, glancing at Draco. He takes the hint, and nods at his mother, slipping his hand from hers.

She looks pained but complies, pressing her lips to the top of his head and moving away. He watches her go, heart squeezing at how thin she looks. Had she always been like this? Did she stop during the war or after it? Or did she stop eating when he left for school, or when he died? He doesn’t know.

Then there’s just Harry, hovering by his bed, and Black absorbed in his ghostly motorcycles.

“Draco…” Harry sits on the bed, and this is it, isn’t it, this is the point where Harry says he doesn’t love him at all, and never has, and he only kissed him because he didn’t want to embarrass him, and-

“Do you want to go out with me?”

Draco blinks, startled into silence.

Harry flushes, looking away. “Well, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, I just thought that since we, uhm, kissed, you might like me in the way that I like you? It’s fine if you don’t, I get it, I just had to ask, because-”

Draco laughs, the sound escaping him like a bubble popping in his pure joy and relief. Harry cuts himself off at that, mouth twitching upwards as Draco laughs, and stretching it into a huge grin as Draco nods furiously. Would he like to date Harry Potter, the Saviour, the Boy Who Lived Twice, the stupid scarhead who he’s been obsessed with since that dumb rejected handshake eight years ago.

“Great! Great! That’s amazing!” Harry breathes, buzzing with excitement, and launches forward to hug Draco tightly. His arms are strong around him, comforting in a way Draco’s never felt from anyone else, and he thinks that if he can date Harry bloody Potter, he can do anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've seen some writers do this thing where they can put the name of another work in their notes, and you can click on it and it will send you through to that work. This would be incredibly helpful in my recommendations, so if anyone knows how it's done, please tell me! Thanks!
> 
> Question time!
> 
> If this smoke spell could be cast on a book of your choosing, which book would it be?
> 
> For me, it'd definitely have to be 'Halo' by Zizou Corder. This book has been my favourite for years, and a huge inspiration towards my love of the Ancient Greeks and Romans. It may not be that impressive as I get older, but the way it manages to combine so many of my favourite ideas in books will always make it special in my eyes.


	31. Living

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. We're nearing the end. I apologise for missing last week's update, but this week's is an extra long one thanks to its importance. I'm betting you're all holding your breath for how I'm going to end this, so I'll finish my notes quickly and get to it.
> 
> As always, any questions or ideas or just random babbles are always appreciated.
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

In the end, the ministry lets Black go without trial. Draco has a feeling that’s only because Poppy threw a fit when asked if he could be moved. The poor woman has been running around all of the past few weeks, tending to their needs as well as dealing with the day to day injuries around the school. With the Christmas break in full swing, there has been less than usual, but he’s seen far too many students come in with a broken limb from falling on the ice.

Luckily for Draco, this means he isn’t completely stuck with only an estranged family member and a sketch of a house elf for company. While Harry does visit every day, twice a day, and sometimes during the night with his invisibility cloak, he does have his own lessons and life to be getting on with. Draco’s own schoolwork is delivered in the form of recordings through the smoke spell Pansy has been perfecting. She sets a spare wand to keep running the spell during the lesson, and Draco has finally perfected the wandless flying note charm to ask the professors for help when he needs it.

His wand couldn’t be saved. That is his price for having the Dark Mark destroyed, so he can't be too upset about it. The poor thing was struggling anyway. Without it, he now has to master using magic without words or a wand, which would be near impossible if Sirius didn’t have as much time on his hands as Draco. During the long days in the ward, he and Draco have been practicing their magic together, offering each other tips and comfort when they fail. Apparently, being trapped in Limbo for years on end restricts magic somewhat.

Not only that, but they are both using magic that is foreign to them. A large part of their energy is made up of Blaise and Harry’s magic, which is unfamiliar and harder to work. Countless times they’ve both cast a spell for it to blow up from the unexpected power from Harry, or for it to slip from their grasp and cast something completely unexpected because of Blaise’s impulsivity.

After they’d accidentally transformed a curtain into a snake which rampaged the area for a day or so, Poppy refused to let them practice much without supervision. Therefore, Sirius mainly stuck to his books and chatting, and Draco focused on his painting.

Strangely, Jaebo must have absorbed some of Draco’s artistry when he was created, as he constantly advises him on what colours to use or which brush stroke to make next. It’s soothing, in a way, to get lost in the colours and delicate flicks of painting. Not long after he started, a vague shape of a face can be made out, pale skin against a dark green background. He doesn’t know how to control his sudden ability, so he’s decided to at least paint someone useful.

‘Art therapy’ is what Hermione’s calling it, when she and Pansy visit. Together, they’ve begun campaigning for magical therapists, dubbed ‘Mind Healers’ in the newspapers they’ve contacted. So far, the movement has gained a lot of support, thanks to her popularity and the increasing need for such a thing. Luna is training to be their test subject, using the Ministry to jump in and out of various psychology lectures, gathering information on as much as she can. Every time she drops in, her random facts are more aimed at helping him and Sirius improve, rather than her usual comments about plants or creatures. Draco finds himself examining every negative thought now, correcting every flaw in it so he doesn’t spiral down into a whirlwind of self hate.

He still can’t quite convince himself he’s more than a murderer, but at least it’s improvement. When he feels like sinking into the pit in his stomach, he’s learnt to ask Poppy for another blanket, which she and Sirius have adopted as their private code for ‘please talk to me, I’m not feeling great’. Sometimes he hates it, wishes they would care less about him and let him stew in self-pity. But most of the time he’s grateful, listening to Sirius ramble on about motorcycles or his horrible family, or watching Jaebo pull faces and dance about.

Theo visits. He brings a glowing white flower with him, setting it by his bedside table and leaving a small jug of water with it. They don’t talk. After half an hour, he leaves again, tending to the grounds and the creatures lurking in the forest. Draco’s glad he’s found something to dedicate himself to, other than killing and torturing innocent people. He has to remind himself that he and Theo were similar, once, and then he spends the rest of the next two days thinking about every gentle touch they shared. It hurts, especially when Harry comes and tries taking his hand.

The argument from that lasts less than three hours. He sends a note after Harry, apologising and begging forgiveness. He doesn’t deserve it, but Harry returns with teary eyes and tight hugs, and they’re back to the hesitant relationship they’ve been cultivating. Not that everything is suddenly perfect. Harry’s magic sputters and spits while Draco’s explodes, and he’s not oblivious to the resentment in Harry’s eyes whenever he casts a spell. Hermione jokes that it’s Harry’s punishment for doing that stupid spell which started this mess. Draco thinks Harry secretly believes her.

Christmas comes and goes, presents overflowing from their two beds, and soon Poppy declares them suitably fit to leave. Sirius is practically howling at the walls by this point, setting pranks and pacing the ward like there’s no tomorrow. Draco is less eager, especially when this means the press is certain to get news of his reincarnation. Piles of howlers, here he comes!

Except he doesn’t. The second morning of his return to Hogwarts life, he comes into the common room to find Pansy, Hermione, and Blaise standing over a pile of burning letters. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do they. He’ll thank them, at some point, when the white smoke doesn’t constantly turn into rain when he feels emotional.

Then he finishes the painting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“He’s not moving.”

“Just wait, maybe the paint isn't dry yet.”

‘It’s been an hour already.’

“How long did it take you to wake up?”

“Jaebo doesn’t know when he was made, miss!”

“It could be a few days for all we know.”

“Merlin, I wish there was a user’s manual on this sort of stuff.”

“Not many people around who would or could write such a thing.”

“Master Draco could writes it!”

‘I don’t know how it works.’

“Shut up! Shut up! I think I saw him move!”

They all hold their breath, crammed together around the painting, Draco nervously biting his nails. Pansy had told him to stop it, since it was a ‘disgusting habit’, but after the fifteenth time she’d given up. Besides, the waiting put everyone on edge.

“No, it was probably just your imagination, mate.” Ron bumps Blaise on the shoulder, relief slipping onto his face.

Then Lucius blinks, and they all freeze once more. “Draco?”

‘Father’, Draco writes, then winces as cold rain falls down from the words.

His father looks around at them all, painted features shifting from the warm smile Draco had painted him in, to a bewildered sort of awe. That’s when Draco knows it isn’t his father at all. He’d tried to focus on the memories of before the war, when it was just him, his mother and his father against the world. But even then he wouldn’t have revealed his emotions so clearly.

“Mr Malfoy.” Blaise offers his hand, then winces and retracts it when he realises Lucius can’t shake it. “It’s good to see you.”

“Zabini.” His father sticks his nose up, a familiar cold mask slipping on, and Draco could almost cry at the sight of it. “I hope you hired a decent painter to paint me. I would hate it if I looked imperfect.”

There’s some elements of his father to it. If you had only met Lucius once a week, or had known him as a colleague, the impression would be startlingly realistic. You might even be convinced that it really is him. But for Draco, who has grown up knowing every inch of his father, he can see that the painting is nothing more than a copy, a bland clone of the real man.

“Your son painted you.” Pansy pats a hand on Draco’s shoulder, breaking the awkward silence that had followed his question. “We’ve just found out he can do that.”

“Ah.” Lucius falls quiet at that, appraising Draco. “That is… a revelation. I am surprised this skill was kept hidden while I was alive.”

He can just hear it, the subtle way his father tells him how proud he is of him. At least this copy didn’t miss that. Draco’s sight suddenly becomes incredibly blurry, so he buries his face in his arm and wills away the tears. As usual, he feels Harry’s arms wrap around his waist the second he does so, Harry’s chin on his shoulder, muttering reassurances.

“Ahem.”

Then he realises his father is still watching him, and a jolt of panic shoots through him. He never told his father he was gay. He’s the only heir of the Malfoy household, the only one that can carry on their bloodline. He can’t be gay. Not only that, but there would be no way he would have told his father he was with Harry Potter, the Slayer of the Dark Lord, the one who had won the war and ultimately destroyed their chances of a better life.

Hesitantly, he drops his arm, blinking away the wetness in his eyes. His father is watching him with that cool mask, the one that means he’s trying to hide how lost he is. Draco starts thinking of ways to excuse it, thinks about shoving Harry away, thinks about how disappointed his father will be if he finds out.

But…

His real father is dead. He’ll never know all those flaws Draco kept hidden. This painting is only a copy, and what’s the point of spending so long perfecting it if Draco still only hides and buries himself beneath layers of doubt? If this is not the time to show him his true self, when will it be?

‘Father, this is Harry. My boyfriend.’ He rushes out, holding it together as best as possible. Harry stiffens behind him, and for a moment Draco thinks he’s done the wrong thing. Then Harry presses a kiss to his cheek with a massive grin, and Draco breathes out a sigh of relief, eyes focused on his father.

Lucius pauses, mouth pressed in a thin line. There’s a long, long silence. Pansy coughs awkwardly. He gets a sinking feeling that he should leave, right now, before his father starts shouting.

“I always thought you had an unhealthy obsession with that boy.” His father sniffs, rolling his eyes.

Draco feels the sting of tears again, but this time he lets them fall as he starts chuckling wetly. He can’t help it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After this, Harry is brought to tea with Narcissa, and Draco is brought to lunch with the Weasley’s. The tea is sufficiently awkward, as one might expect with a combination of Sirius and Narcissa living in the same house. The renovations have been accelerating far quicker with Narcissa there, so at least the setting is pleasant. Kreacher apparently doesn’t welcome the influx of new house elves, so has retreated to the furthest corner of the house. This makes Sirius incredibly happy, but less so when the Malfoy house elves badger him about setting his feet on the coffee table, or leaving dirty laundry on the floor. Not only this, but every time Sirius makes a raucous joke, Narcissa sighs exasperatedly, and every time Narcissa dances around a sensitive topic with delicate words, Sirius gets irritated and snaps at her. Draco has a feeling that the only reason they didn’t descend into a shouting match was because Remus kept both of them on a tight leash.

The Weasley’s lunch went a lot smoother, even if it was a little overwhelming. Molly took one look at Draco’s skinny frame and bombarded him with food, despite his constant polite protests that he was far too full. Ron delighted in egging her on, telling stories of how the Slytherin table rarely has any fatty foods, and giving not-so-subtle hints about how Draco barely ate anything more than an apple when he first arrived at Hogwarts. Ginny brings along Luna, arguing that if Harry is allowed his boyfriend, she’s allowed her girlfriend. For this, Draco is grateful. If Luna hadn’t been there as a quiet, calming presence, he doubts he wouldn’t have run off at some point to get some space.

Fred’s absence was like a gaping wound. George was so much quieter, and didn’t pull one single prank throughout the whole meal. A sheet was thrown over the clock at some point, thanks to Draco’s constant glances towards it. No one sat in Fred’s chair, even though there was barely any space for the large number of people. Draco couldn’t help but feel guilty, a lump in his throat that wouldn’t go away when he swallowed.

When Harry suggests getting together with both of the groups on New Year’s Eve, Draco almost blacks out at the thought. One household was overwhelming enough. So instead they decide to have a quiet night in their dorm, a muggle movie and some popcorn to fill the time. Neville is the only one who isn’t going elsewhere, and after hearing of their plans, he tactically decides to spend the evening with Theo and Hagrid instead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

‘Why doesn’t he just lock the door?’ Draco flicks the comment into the air, letting it drift over the projection and dissipate.

“There’s no lock on it, and muggles can’t do magic.” Harry sighs, dumping his head on Draco’s shoulder. “If they could do magic, they wouldn’t have needed to wait for their taxi in the first place, because they’d have just apparated, and then there would be no movie.”

‘Life without magic must be so hard.’ Draco shrugs, lifting a hand to pet Harry’s hair.

“It is.” Harry says simply.

They’d borrowed the projector and film from Mr Weasley, who’d been clearing out some of his muggle junk thanks to Mrs Weasley. The painted animals in the common room took offense to it at first, hissing and clawing at the lines of where the projection began, but soon they got bored and wandered off. Draco doesn’t understand the plot of the film much (all of the characters seem pretty stupid in his opinion), so he’d zoned out quite a while back in favour of relishing in the warmth from Harry. 

The main girl screams just as the clock Harry had set up chimes eleven. Harry suddenly sits up, making Draco whine at the cold, and pauses the film.

‘What?’ Draco frowns, looking at his nervous expression.

“I want to show you something.” Harry stands, holding out a hand. “Although you might want to take the blankets, we’re going outside.”

Hesitantly, he takes Harry’s hand and hauls himself up, blankets wrapped around his shoulders tightly. They make their way out of the common room, through the corridors and around staircases, ducking into rooms whenever teachers pass by. Technically, they’re allowed to wander around in the night, since it’s the holidays and they’re eighth years, but Harry had argued that it was more fun this way. Draco agrees, although he wouldn’t ever admit to it. This sort of thing is supposed to be far beneath him.

The excitement dries up rapidly when they stop at the bottom of a spiral staircase. Harry starts leading him up, but pauses as he sees Draco’s face. “What is it?”

He shakes his head, clutching the blankets around himself tighter. ‘Not there.’

“Why-... oh.” Harry winces, glancing up. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

There’s a tense silence as the two of them stand there, Harry straining towards going up, and Draco recoiling from the place where his life went to shit. Eventually, Harry sighs and moves away from it, crestfallen.

“Let’s go back to the common room, then. I’ll clean it up tomorrow.”

Draco grabs Harry’s arm, stopping him at the last second, battling with himself. Harry tilts his head curiously, waiting for him to explain, and at his hopeful face Draco crumbles.

‘It’s fine. We can go up.’

“Are you sure?” Harry glances between the staircase and Draco. “I don’t want to force you up there.”

‘No. I can do it.’ Draco takes a shuddering breath, facing the metal steps. ‘I can do it.’

The letters drizzle down onto the floor in fat droplets, but neither of them comment. Instead, Harry takes Draco’s hand and leads them up slowly, checking back every few seconds to see if he’s ok. He has to stop, once or twice, to push away the memories (green flash, mad laugh, the trees waving below for him to just lean a little bit more and join them) yet within twenty minutes they’re at the top and he can finally breathe.

It’s unrecognisable. Fairy lights dance around in the air, blue and gold and silver, and the floor is covered in soft multicoloured rugs. Every exposed piece of metal has been charmed a different colour, and strings of dyed wool link together and hang from above. It’s a mad mix of clashing visuals, but Draco loves it, because it overwhelms every bad memory that had tainted this tower.

“Do you like it?” Harry grins, spreading his arms and gesturing at the scene. “I was going to get a sofa or something, but I didn’t have enough time.”

Draco smiles, moving to settle down by the railings on the softest carpet he could see. ‘I love it. It’s amazing, Harry, thank you.’

Harry sits down beside him, wrapping an arm around his waist as Draco pulls the blankets over Harry too. “Anything for you.” He mumbles.

The tears that sting his eyes from that statement are perfectly justified. Not too long ago, he was dead and thought only his mother would do more than simply shrug at it. Now, Harry bloody Potter is hugging him and saying he would do anything for him.

“Hey, Draco?” Harry pulls away slightly, looking at him in worry. “What is it?”

‘It’s just a lot to take in’ is what he tries to write, but every letter rains down on him before he can finish a single word. After the third time, he makes a frustrated noise and kicks at the railing.

“Hey, hey, it’s ok!” Harry pulls him into a hug, arms holding him tightly. “You don’t have to tell me right now. I understand.”

He pushes against him weakly for a few seconds, then resigns himself to the hug and the inevitable tears. In some way, it feels good to cry like this. He may give himself a headache and a snotty nose, but with every sob, he feels himself getting freer. Harry holds him through it, rubbing his back and whispering comforts that Draco doesn’t really process, yet can appreciate.

After a while, the sobs die down, and Harry helps wipe his eyes dry as they sit back. Except for the occasional sniffle, the world around them is silent.

“I talked to Theo a while back.” Harry starts, eyes trained on the stars hanging in the sky.

Draco nods, motioning for him to go on. He’s not willing to risk getting worked up if his smoke words still aren’t working.

Harry clears his throat. “It was just after you’d… uhm, died… and he told me I should stop using magic to try and make you… happy? I’ve been thinking about it, and how I can’t really do much magic at the moment, and I thought that I might stop using magic for a while, once this year is over. I’ve… forgotten what it feels like to be without magic, how I actually thought about things instead of just doing them. When you have magic, it feels like no matter what you do, you can just fix it with magic. Break a vase? You just cast repairo. You know what I’m saying?”

Draco doesn’t, at all, but he nods anyway. He’s lived his whole life with magic, and he’s always thought about what he does, weighing up the pros and cons of every decision. Except for where Harry is involved. Harry has always been the exception.

“Yeah. So, I’m going to go without magic for a while, see how I go, let my magic recharge, like Hermione says. Think about things more.” He glances at Draco, green eyes sincere. “About you more. I don’t want to keep hurting you.”

For him? This is all because Harry doesn’t want to hurt him? Draco shakes his head, guilt burning in his stomach, hoping to get through that he doesn’t want Harry to give up magic because of him.

“No, I know, it’s a big thing.” Harry turns fully to him, swallowing. “I’ll use magic if I absolutely have to, but I need to do this. I want to learn to help without just throwing magic at things. Please, Draco? I promise I won’t take it too far.”

Reluctantly, Draco thinks about it. It’s true Harry’s magic isn’t what it was before, and his old way of using his magic just won’t work anymore, but no magic at all? This is coming from the boy who relied on the power of his magic so much he just threw an expelliarmus at Volde- the Dark Lord and hoped for the best. Why can’t he use magic, but think about things? It’s possible to do both.

But… this isn’t Draco’s choice to make. Much as he would like to rely on Harry to levitate a blanket to him when his wandless magic is too volatile, he can’t stop Harry from doing this. He’s clearly thought about it, otherwise he wouldn’t look so nervous and still bring it up. This is Harry’s choice.

Draco sighs, then nods.

Harry grins, a puff of air escaping him. “Thank you. Really, I won’t let you down, I’ll prepare for everything and set out plans, Hermione-style. Thank you.”

Draco smiles slightly, waving him off.

“Oh, another thing.” Harry looks a little sheepish, rubbing at the back of his neck. “When this year is over, do you… want to stay at Grimmauld Place? It’ll be a little crowded, with me, your mum, Sirius, Remus, you and sometimes Teddy, along with all of the house elves, but… it housed the entire Order of the Phoenix at one point, so…”

Draco nods his head, stopping the eye roll that he’s dying to do. Where else did Harry think he was going to go? Back to the Manor?

“Thank Merlin.” Harry sighs, launching forward to hug him again. “I thought I was going to have to buy a new house to make everyone fit. Although, I might buy a new house anyway, considering we can’t really do… y’know… with your mum and my godfather and our old teacher in the house.”

Draco snickers, imagining the many awkward breakfasts that might follow. He remembers enough avoided eye contact from when Pansy slept over at his house. That was enough for a lifetime, and the two of them had only played truth or dare and gossiped about cute boys (carefully avoiding the topic of Harry).

“This is my final question, I swear.” Harry sits back, hands sliding to intertwine with Draco’s. “What was up with that sweater? Near the start of the year, you wore… my sweater. At least I think it was mine. I never got to ask you about it.”

Draco winces, feeling heat flood his cheeks. That. Years ago, when he’d still thought this strange obsession with Harry was hate, he’d been passing a girl in a corridor, Crabbe and Goyle following him. The girl had held the sweater, nervously trying to hide it. He’d taken it, laughed at her like the bully he was, and learnt she was going to return it to Harry. At first, he’d kept it so he could later use it for a prank, line it with a potion to cause boils or something similar. In all the panic of that year, he’d forgotten about it.

It wasn’t until the year after that he’d rediscovered it, around the time that he’d accepted the agony that was love for Harry Potter. Harry’s scent still clung to it, grass and broomstick polish wafting over him, so he’d cast a spell to preserve the smell and snuck it under his pillow. It was the only thing that helped him sleep at night for a long time, until it became far too dangerous to own something of Potter’s.

Suddenly, a loud bang startles the two of them, saving him from having to explain that awkward secret. They whip their heads to face the noise, and dissolve into laughter when they see it’s only the two boys at Hagrid’s setting off fireworks. There’s faint yelling from some teacher out of a window, and the two figures sprint back into the cabin, letting the sparkling dragon twist about in the air.

“I suppose that means it’s midnight.” Harry casts a tempus, and nods. “Happy New Year, Draco.”

Draco nods, forming a plus sign with his fingers and then pointing at Harry (and you). The grin on his face feels strange, but a welcome sort of strangeness that he can’t wait to get familiar with.

They share a kiss, Harry’s scent washing over him, and Draco feels a swell in his heart as he realises he can savour that comforting smell whenever he wants, now. Perhaps it isn’t healthy to depend so much on one person, yet Draco can’t bring himself to care.

“I love you.” Harry whispers against his ear, sending goosebumps down his spine.

The words give him an abrupt spike of determination, enough to make him open his mouth to try and choke out words. “I-” He starts, hope and excitement filling him at managing it, but then it comes crashing down as the air blocks up his throat.

I love you, he tries.

“L- l-”

I love you.

“I l-l-”

I love you.

“I lo-l-”

I love you!

“I! I lo-! Lo-!”

Why can’t he say it?! I love you, I love you, I love you! It’s three words! Why can’t he say it?!

“I lo- I lov- I l- I-”

Why?! He could speak before, he could speak to Theodore and Pansy and Blaise before, he could speak when he had nothing important to say. He told them stupid things, like ‘I hate baked potatoes’ and ‘I think Neville is crying over a dead plant’. Why can’t he say ‘I love you’?

“Draco!” Harry cups his face with his hands, looking him straight in the eye. “It’s ok, I understand. I know what you’re trying to say. I love you too. You don’t have to be able to say it.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, giving up on the words caught in his throat. It’s not okay. It’s never okay. Harry deserves someone so much better than him, someone who can say they love him without having a massive breakdown over it.

“You don’t have to say it right now.” Harry rubs his cheekbone with his thumb, soft and gentle and so much better than Draco could ever be worth. “We have all the time in the world. Even if you never manage to say it, I will still know it. It doesn’t matter if you can’t say it. It doesn’t make it any less valid. I love you, and you love me.”

He nods, slowly, and hugs Harry back when he moves in. He wishes things were different, that he could say what he means and express himself without choking on empty air. He wishes he could bring himself to believe Harry. He wishes he were better, happier, stronger, and he wishes he hadn’t been so stupid in the first place.

But this way, he has Harry. If he could speak, things might have carried on as every year had. He might have isolated himself and his friends, and none of all the amazing stuff he’s gained would have happened. This way, he has more friends than he ever imagined he would, and all of them are closer than he’s ever allowed anyone but his mother.

At the start of the year, he was little more than a ghost. Now, he is living, properly living, and has people there to catch him if he falls again.

So maybe he can’t speak, and maybe he always feels shit, and maybe he can’t see much of a future for himself.

At least he is living. And someday, he thinks he might breathe freely again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That is it, folks. One more chapter, our epilogue, to go, and then this will be the first long story I've ever actually finished. Woo!
> 
> As for the recommendation of the week, I've gone with... the series 'Comes and Goes (In Waves)' by hujwernoo. I've just finished binge reading it and I actually physically cried at multiple points, which is very rare for me to do even in real life situations, so I have no doubts about recommending this. It is about if Klaus came back as a ghost when the apocalypse happened, and his misadventures with Five and Delores. It's long, but well worth the read!
> 
> Question time!
> 
> Which has been your favourite chapter (if you can't remember exactly, just describe your favourite scene.) and why?
> 
> The first chapter, for me. I began with so much enthusiasm and inspiration that I can feel when I read it, even if I didn't separate the paragraphs back then and had no real plan. The start and end of a work is always my favourite, and the amount of thought and creativity I put into that first chapter is strange to read now that it's coming to an end. Plus... I just love angst too much, and that chapter's purpose was almost solely to convey how terrible Draco's life was.


	32. The Dragon's Roar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time, I'm leaving all my notes at the end.
> 
> Enjoy!  
\- E.D.

Graduation consisted of three days in total.

On the first, the press and parents were allowed into Hogwarts, for the official ceremony. Both seventh and eighth years received their graduation certificates, along with their final grades in each subject. The other students had already gone home for summer, leaving the castle and graduating students free to have their photos taken. This day was the worst of the three; not a second passed where any of the famous eighth years could catch a breath, too busy answering questions for the press or avoiding them like the plague.

The second day was a little better, even when they saw the article from the previous day. A small group of them had a bonfire for each newspaper in the morning, then headed down for the events of the day. Over the last few months, they had gathered together a portfolio of their work over their last year, and each of them had a small corner to display their work. Prospective employers wandered around, chatting to students who were hoping for last minute arrangements. Employers who’d already accepted students came to check over the work, assessing them for the job as well as taking in others’ work.

Draco’s collection was a little different to the others. Instead of essays and grades, he’d set up a small gallery of paintings, each one talking and moving around and interacting with others. Mr Lovegood brought along his camera and took photos for an article he was writing on Draco’s work, which had gathered attraction only a few weeks after he started. Because these weren’t just any people in his paintings. These were those who’d died in the Battle of Hogwarts. He had developed the idea after finding his list of people that he’d abandoned a while ago, the ones he’d wanted to help in return for forgiveness. Now, he just wants to help people heal, like he and his mother had after he’d painted Lucius.

The third day came, and everything was packed up. Harry checks through his trunk again, then around their room, jumping over Draco’s and Michael’s trunks. It’s strange to him, knowing this is the last time he’s staying in a dorm room. He’ll miss it. 

A knock comes from the doorway. Harry turns, smiling as he sees Draco standing there. His muggle jeans are a light shade of blue, the sweater over them a deep purple. His beanie from the beginning of the year is tucked over his hair, loose strands of pale blonde messy under it. Harry walks over, running his fingers through it to try and get it to stay down, which it does, unlike his messy mop. Draco does the same for him, although it’s unfortunately in vain.

“It’s never gonna stay down, you know.” Harry laughs, neatening the cuffs of his shirt.

Draco shrugs, dropping his slender arms to tuck his hands into his pockets. He’s still skinny, but he’s nowhere near the skeleton he was all those months ago. Harry supposes his posture helps to make him look less dead - the slight slouch in his shoulders is gone, replaced with the confidence Harry remembers from their younger school days. Somehow, his annoyance at it has gone since then. He feels more happy about it than anything else.

“Are you sure you’ve got everything?” Harry steps back, eyes scanning the room.

Draco sighs. “Y-yes.” His voice is a whisper, strained and choked, but it’s there. “S-stop- stop wor-worrying.”

“Sorry.” Harry bites his lip, forcing himself to turn away from the room. “Are you ready to go down?”

“Mhm.” Draco holds his hand out, which Harry takes.

They make their way through the common room, passing Neville’s many boxes of house plants, and through the hallways of the castle. It’s eerily quiet, without the younger years chasing each other about. Harry misses the noise. Soon, however, the chatter of voices reach them as they approach the Great Hall.

“Draco!” Pansy hurries forward, from the entranceway, dress swishing about her knees. “Thank Merlin, I thought you weren’t coming. Your Jaebo keeps asking for you, I think he might run away to try and find you if you don’t talk to him.”

Draco shakes his head in exasperation, giving Harry a quick kiss on the cheek before following Pansy. Oh, well. Harry sighs, walking into the hall by himself. The house elf drawing can be quite clingy sometimes, so Draco usually carries a sketch of a room in his pocket for Jaebo to drop into when he needs him.

The Great Hall has been decorated with bright colours, banners strung from every wall and plates of food floating through the air. Originally, this was supposed to be a relaxed event to say goodbye to everyone, but Hermione had somehow managed to commandeer the whole thing into a F.H.E. event (Free the House Elves. Pansy had flat-out refused to keep calling it S.P.E.W.) and now boxes for donations and sign up sheets are everywhere in sight. Ron had been skeptical, until Blaise had drawn him into an idea about house elf themed wizarding chess. Now their prototype chess board sits by a wall, a group of seventh years poking at the figures.

Speaking of Ron. Harry wanders over to him, raising a hand in a wave. Ron grins back, slinging an arm around his shoulders when he’s close enough. 

“Blimey, Harry, what took you so long? You and Draco get… distracted?”

Harry flushes. “What? No! I was just packing up my stuff, saying goodbye to the room, y’know?”

“Sure you were.” Blaise winks at him, blood-red shirt styled to casual elegance. “Ron and I were discussing potential Auror robes designs. Care to contribute.”

“I’m not really into fashion, I doubt I’ll think of anything good.” Harry shrugs.

“Well, neither am I, mate.” Ron snorts. “But at least I know when I’m an Auror, I won’t be prancing about in bloody heeled boots. You know how impractical those things are?”

“But the aesthetic!” Blaise groans, gesturing at his own heeled shoes. “Pansy agrees with me. Plus, you’d be so much more intimidating. I don’t mean to offend, weaselbee, but at your height, no one will take you seriously when you go to arrest them.”

“Bloody hell.” Ron shakes his head. “I don’t need heeled boots. If you are actually gonna make this fashion line thing, you better include at least one pair of decent flat boots. I’m not wearing heels.”

“Trust me, the heeled boots are the least extravagant things in my designs.” Blaise chuckles.

“I’m not even going to ask.” Harry cringes, mind running through some… less than appropriate images of Draco in Blaise’s designs. “So, you’re definitely doing the Auror training?”

“Yep!” Ron grins. “The guy from yesterday said they’ll let me in even with lower grades than normal. What with the stuff from last year, and all. Apparently helping destroy Voldemort is better than getting Exceeds Expectations in Potions.”

“That’s great!” Harry claps him on the back, his own stomach sinking. The Auror hadn’t asked him for his grades, just offered him a position with minimum training. He’d turned it down. He’s done with fighting, especially if he’s not going to use magic for a while.

“I’m not entirely sure that’s a good thing for the Ministry to be doing, but I’m happy for you too.” Hermione chimes in, sliding next to Blaise with a clipboard in her hand. “Any of you donating?”

“Oh, sure.” Harry digs in his pocket and brings out a few galleons, handing them over. “I’ll put in more when I’ve got stuff from Gringotts.”

“That’s fine. Thanks, Harry.” She smiles at him, tucking the money away into the donation box. “Hopefully some people will start listening if they hear you’ve donated.”

“Is this gonna be your full-time gig, then?” Ron mumbles, grin slipping at her appearance. The two of them had split up not long ago, although Harry has a feeling it’s only temporary, to give each of them space. They’d never resolved the issue of Hermione wanting independence to follow her own dreams, so Harry thinks this is maybe their way of doing that - letting Hermione find her feet and have a set path in what she wants before getting together again.

But Harry can’t see the future, so he can’t be certain. He never thought he’d end up with Draco, after all.

“No, it’s actually going to be Pansy running it.” Hermione shrugs. “I’m starting in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in three weeks, if the woman who interviewed me a few days ago is to be believed. Not the Aurors, the law-making office. I’ll be working as an assistant for people drawing up new legislation, seeing how it all works. Sorry I didn’t tell you two earlier, I’ve just been so busy sorting everything out.”

“It’s ok. That sounds amazing, Hermione. Well done!” Harry grins, holding up his hand for a high five that she gives with an eye roll. “Soon you’ll be running for Minister, no doubt.”

“I think I’d prefer to be helping people with better laws, rather than running the whole operation.” She says modestly, tucking her clipboard underneath her arm. “There’s not much diversity in the ministry yet. That’s something I’d like to fix.”

“That sounds very you.” Ron snorts, earning a slap on his arm. “Ow! Oh, good, cake.”

Harry and Hermione both snigger as he darts away to grab cake from a plate, Blaise flicking his wand to see Ron chasing after the now speeding dish.

“Blaise, darling, sweetheart, lovely rose of my soul.” Pansy drifts in next to them, slipping her arm through Blaise’s. “Your intelligence and bravery take my breath away, and I’ve never seen anyone with better fashion sense than you, my-”

“What do you want me to do?” Blaise interrupts with a fond smile.

“Luna’s psychoanalysing Neville’s obsession with plants and Theo is egging her on again.” Pansy whines, pointing over at the sweating Neville holding a venus flytrap close to his chest. As they watch, Luna calmly backs him into a corner, Theo nodding sagely beside her.

“I’ll go get Ginny.” Blaise sighs. “Harry, Hermione, it’s been wonderful knowing you. Please don’t drag my fashion line through the mud by wearing the clothing wrong if you buy some.”

With that, he leaves, Pansy clinging to his arm and complaining about something or another.

“She was thinking about helping him with the line, but I got her to think about the worse off house elves and she agreed to take over F.H.E. as her main project. She’ll still advise on the fashion line, but we’ll spend a lot of time together.” Hermione speaks up, a wistful edge to her voice.

“You know she’s not going to leave Blaise.” Harry turns to Hermione, putting a hand on her shoulder. “It’ll just make this worse.”

Hermione shrugs, tearing her eyes away from Pansy. “I know. I don’t even think she likes girls anyway. But… at least I can be her friend, right?”

“Right.” Harry sighs, resigning her to speak this over with Luna. When Hermione had confessed to him her feelings about Pansy, he hadn’t been too surprised. He’s seen the way she looks forward to every F.H.E. meeting like it’s a lifeline. Luckily, neither of them have had any delusions about Pansy feeling the same way for Hermione, so these conversations are few and far inbetween. 

“Well, as long as she’s happy with Blaise, right? Plenty of other fish in the sea for me.” Hermione puts a smile on her face, clipboard out again. “She’s just so irritatingly attractive. Anyway, I’ve got donations to collect. See you!”

“Bye.” He turns away as she trots off, seeing McGonagall in the corner and heading over.

“Harry.” McGonagall smiles, picking a cucumber sandwich from a passing plate. “Are you doing well?”

“Yes, thanks.” Harry nods, hands twisting nervously together. “Professor, have you thought about what I said yesterday?”

“A little.” She concedes. “Neville has approached me about the same topic. Not the same subject, but the same topic. If you’re willing to put in the extra work that will come with it, I will be willing to place you both with the professors.”

He lets out a huge sigh of relief, a beam spreading across his face. “Merlin, thank you, Professor McGonagall!”

“Don’t thank me yet.” She holds up a hand, a pleased twinkle in her eye. “You’ll need approval from the Professor’s Association, and you’ll likely be sharing Theodore’s quarters between the three of you for now. I don’t see why Professor Heartstringer wouldn’t agree, but she might decide not to accept you as her trainee assistant.”

“Even so, I’m really grateful you decided to try.” He holds out his hand, which she shakes. “Have you told Neville yet?”

“Not yet. I thought you might like to deliver the good news.”

“Yeah, ok, I’ll do that. Thank you, professor.” He nods enthusiastically, heading towards the group in the corner, how with Ginny. 

“But I thought it didn’t have any healing properties.” Neville is saying as he approaches, frowning at Luna.

“Yes, but it has calming ones, doesn’t it? The animals in the Forbidden Forest like to eat it when it's’ getting close to the full moon. Isn’t it used in some Calming Draughts?” Theo comments, looking to Luna too.

“Sometimes.” She says, head tucked into Ginny’s shoulder. “It’s more for the ability to ward away wrackspurts. You should have looked at my research on them yesterday, it’s amazing how many students with mental health difficulties have a higher percentage of wrackspurts around them.”

“Hi, Harry!” Ginny sounds overly excited as she greets him, likely hoping he’ll change the subject rapidly. The three of them have a habit of spiralling into obscure topics, linking plants and creatures and Luna’s psychological research like there’s no tomorrow.

“Hey, Ginny, Luna, Theo.” He nods at each of them, then spins to Neville. “Guess what.”

“What?” Neville clutches his plant tighter, eyes flicking between Harry and McGonagall. He must have seen them talking.

“If the teachers and the ministry agree, we can do it!” Harry declares, seeing Neville’s face light up. “We might have to share with Theo, sorry man, but it could happen!”

“I wouldn’t mind.” Theo shrugs. “Wait, what is this about?”

“Me and Harry want to become professors.” Neville explains, bouncing with happiness. “Me in Herbology, Harry in DADA, obviously. I can’t believe she actually said yes! Snape didn’t even get the Potions position until three years after he graduated!”

“It might take three years to be up to a high enough standard, though.” Ginny points out. “Still, sounds cool! Less publicity, too, I’m guessing.”

Harry winces, watching Ginny and Luna exchange a knowing look. Yes, the lack of press or media anywhere near Hogwarts may have made him more biased towards getting it, but he wanted the job anyway. He doesn’t necessarily have to do magic, only say the theory and show them the spell a few times. It’s one of the few places in the world in which he can trust everyone there, and the only place in the world that’s ever felt like his true home. Plus, the taste of teaching during Umbridge’s reign made him feel important and worthwhile, helping people through teaching instead of fighting all the time.

“What about Draco? I thought you two were going to move in together?” Luna tilts her head, voice light and curious.

“We are.” Harry grins. “It doesn’t matter where we are, Draco can still paint and sell his art, and I think he’d prefer staying at Hogwarts too. His mum and my da- I mean, Remus and Sirius are already happy together at Grimmauld Place, they won’t need us there too.”

“Oh no.” Neville suddenly whispers, face white. They all turn to stare at him.

“What is it?” Ginny frowns.

He flushes bright red, shaking his head. “Nevermind, it’s nothing.”

“Do you not want Draco there too?” Harry frowns, thinking back over any interaction Neville and Draco have had. He didn’t think they hated each other anymore. Sure, Neville was terrified of Draco’s bullying in the past, but Harry had thought everyone had gotten over that (ignoring Terry and Fletchley).

“It’s not that, it’s just…” Neville trails off, clearing his throat awkwardly. “You two, in a room next to us… the walls aren’t great at hiding noise…”

Ginny and Theo burst into laughter, making Neville sink into his hoodie further, face beetroot red. Harry can feel his own face heating up, but tries to laugh it off too.

“Merlin, Neville, we wouldn’t just let you listen to- to that!” Harry splutters.

“To what?” Luna asks innocently, making Ginny burst into another round of giggles.

“It’s ok, Luna, you don’t need to know.” The redhead reassures her, kissing her lightly on the head and trying to contain any further laughter.

“So, uhm, Ginny, what are yours and Luna’s plans again?” Harry quickly changes the subject, even though he already knows exactly what they’re going to do after this year.

“Quidditch. Holyhead Harpies.” Ginny recounts, small giggles slipping out. “I’m gonna play chaser when they’ve finished my training.”

“The ministry is calling me a trainee Mind Healer.” Luna says, brushing off her previous confusion. “I don’t know why they aren’t calling me a therapist, but it’s either change the name entirely or stick ‘magical’ in front of it. I’ll take Mind Healer over that.”

“Saint Mungo's?” Neville asks.

She nods. “Psyche ward. It’s only for me at the moment, until I pass a test they’re going to make, and then I’ll be teaching others and practicing on my own patients.”

“It’s weird that you’re going to be the first.” Harry shakes his head in amazement. “I bet they’re going to remember your name for far longer than mine. The Boy Who Lived Twice? Nah, they’re gonna be celebrating Luna Lovegood, first ever Mind Healer.”

She grins happily. “Thanks Harry. I just hope it works, and isn’t abandoned by the Ministry like some other projects.”

“It won’t be.” He reassures, then startles at a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he sees Draco, one hand holding up a familiar piece of paper, a pleading look on his face.

“Sorry, guys, I’ll talk later.” He says to them, taking Draco’s hand and walking away. They each call a goodbye after him.

“Want to practice?” He asks Draco, who nods nervously, fingers tight around his. “Ok, we can find an empty room. You have nothing to worry about, I’ll be here the entire time, and you can do it whenever you want.”

Draco nods.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Draco nods, and the room quiets as the two of them approach the stand. Harry’s fingers intertwine with his, hidden behind the lecturn, offering something to focus on other than his rising panic and the sea of faces staring at him. Two full year groups, depleted by the war, but still enough to make him rethink everything. Even so, it’s too late to turn back, so he places his paper on the stand and looks to Harry.

“Thanks everyone for coming.” Harry starts off, tapping the top of the lectern to set off the amplifying spell. His voice carries across the hall, making those who hadn’t been paying attention turn to look at them. “It’s been a strange last few days, knowing that we’ll never come back here, but I hope you’ve all enjoyed yourselves tonight.” A cheer at that. “I’ll say a few words at the end, but there’s someone else who’d like to speak first. Please be kind, as I know he’d be to you.”

Then it’s Draco’s turn. He swallows, fingers shaking as he grips the bottom of the lectern, reading over the words on the page. This is it. This is what he’s been working towards for the past few months. He clears his throat, opens his mouth-

And chokes.

There’s a horrible silence, muffled coughing and shuffling feet as he tries to push the words out, breathing from his belly like Luna has taught him to do. Nothing. Frustration wells inside him, making his heart pound faster and breaths come quicker despite his efforts. The seconds seem to stretch out into hours, pitying and disgusted looks mixing and getting confused.

“It’s been a difficult few years for each of us.” Harry starts the speech, squeezing Draco’s hand, then drops his voice to a whisper in Draco’s ear. “Just say it with me, ok? Just like we practised.”

Draco nods, gulping hard and taking in a deep shuddering breath.

“We’ve overcome challenges no other year groups have ever had to do.” Harry continues.

“We- we’ve overc-c-come challenges no oth-other year group-ps have ever had to d-d...do.” Draco repeats, cringing as his stuttering voice amplifies to the crowd.

There are a few gasps, muttered voices mixing with small squeals of surprise. He hasn’t spoken since his death, and before that, had only managed shorter sentences than these. By the looks of delight and shock from the other students, they hadn’t realised he and Harry had been practising.

“I’d have liked to stand here today with my head held high, declaring that I’ve done the best I could have.”

“I’d like- I’d have l-liked to stand h-here today with m-m-my head-d held high, decl-claring that I’ve d-done the b-b-best I could h-have.”

It takes him an age to get to the end of it, but the pride shining from his friends’ faces is worth it. Confidence swells inside him, encouraging him to lift his voice a little louder.

“But I can’t. If things were different, maybe I could have. But I can’t, because I’m ashamed of a lot of things I’ve done over our time together.”

Slowly, he warms up to it, joining in with Harry’s words, their voices speaking at jarringly different speeds. Harry slows down, rubbing his thumb across Draco’s hand in a soothing motion.

“And I’m sorry for it, I truly am. I never wanted to do what I did. I’ve made some horrible decisions, yet somehow, I’m still here.”

Harry’s voice lowers, becoming an undertone to Draco’s lessening stutter.

“I used to think that I didn’t deserve to be here, when so many better people than me can’t be. I’m sure many of you would have agreed with me. Over time, I realised that I was looking at it all the wrong way.”

Draco lifts his chin, voice bursting with defiance and life as he speaks.

“Those people were good people because of their actions. If I am here instead of them, I need to make sure I don’t waste the opportunity. We only get one life to live, and you never know when it might be cut short. To honour everyone we’ve lost, to make up for all the pain I’ve caused, I’m going to be the best person I can be. I’m going to work hard to help people.”

Harry’s voice stops behind him. Draco doesn’t notice, delighting in the feel of his voice rumbling in his throat, bursting out and speaking words he’s trapped inside for so long.

“Our years of Hogwarts have never been about the spells, or the potions, or any of the actual schoolwork. They’ve been about learning to become our best selves. They’ve been about the friendships we’ve made, the conflicts we’ve faced, the changes happening inside our own minds. Our learning was more unconventional than anyone else’s, but we should be proud of that! We should hold our heads high, and say ‘I was a fighter! I lived through a war, and came out the other side a better person than I was before!’ If we are to truly honour every life lost, and every memory made here, we should try to become a person we can be proud of.”

The room is silent, entranced by the pure energy in his voice. A soft white glow outlines his body, slips from his tongue, winds around the room and brightens every expression in there.

“I am ashamed of who I was then, but I refuse to be ashamed of who I am today. I’m going to live the best life I can, and by the end of it, I hope to be remembered for every good thing I’ve done, not the bad. I’ll miss my days at Hogwarts, even after everything. I’ll treasure these memories, and in ten years time, I want to see all of you taking your learning here to heart. To everyone standing here today, I’m proud of all of you. No matter what you’ve done.”

With that, he steps back, and the glow vanishes. Complete silence. His heart thuds in his chest as he looks around at all of the enraptured faces, every one startled into silence.

Then Pansy woops, and the room bursts into noise. Harry hugs him tightly from behind, muttering praises as cheers flood the room. Hermione looks to be discussing the finer points with Blaise, Neville holds his excitedly-waving plant in the air, and Jaebo is busy screeching his enthusiasm from a banner.

His throat may feel like a cat has clawed the insides out, but Draco has an enormous smile stretched across his face. This. This is what he wants to feel like forever. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know what he’s going to do next, it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t think he’ll ever feel like this again. He’s happy - if happy is an appropriate word for the unadulterated energy pumping through his body.

With Harry’s solid weight behind him, and his friends falling over each other in their pride for him, he’s so glad he came back to Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genuine tears in my eyes. I can't believe it's finally over! When I started this all the way back in November(?) I never actually thought I would finish it, considering I had no plan and all of my other longer stories stopped after about five chapters. But here we are, thirty two chapters later, and it is complete.
> 
> It's been amazing all of the support you've given me, every comment has made me so happy to read! Those of you who've answered every single question (you know who you are) have really blown my mind with how dedicated you are to this. I've never been so happy at reading that someone's from Gryffindor house, or that someone has a dog and a cat. I'd love to hear more about all of you whenever I write another Draco fanfic, if you're willing to read it. This has been such a wonderful experience, seeing genuine reactions to what I write.
> 
> But this is goodbye for now! So, if you want to, give me a little wave! *Waves*
> 
> \- E.D.


End file.
